


I Can't Make You Love Me

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Series: Homophobic Trapper [2]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bisexual Hawkeye Pierce, Cheating, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hawkeye POV, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Korean War, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Unhappy Ending, but that's canon because Trapper's married, the sexual assault is by an OC not Trapper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-19 22:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: After the events of Bewildered, Bothered, and Bewitched, Trapper has to come to terms with himself and Hawkeye tries to make a relationship work.





	I Can't Make You Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the sequel I've been writing for seven months. I hope it's worth it, lol. It's a whole 20K longer than the thing that inspired it, too. Also, I would not have finished this if not for the WIP Big Bang. :P
> 
> Title from Bonnie Raitt.

Hawkeye and Trapper are both lying awake, the darkness fraught with things that, for now, feel more deadly than the shells exploding mere miles away. Hawkeye is facing the open tent flap, staring out into darkness, and trembling. It makes no sense; he's not in any more danger now than any other time, and the instrument of his destruction, while lying only a few feet away, is his best friend.

And despite the calm façade he'd presented earlier, Hawkeye's innards quiver like jelly as his mind replays the scene in the supply tent. It isn't like he didn't want Trapper's dick, but it wasn't exactly the sort of unicorn cloth that dreams are made from. Trapper had been bitter and angry, and Hawkeye hadn't gotten any stimulation beyond Trapper's obviously reluctant penetration.

And now they're lying in the same tent, but it feels like Trapper's in North Korea and Hawkeye's in South Korea, and there's no way to bridge the gap without bombs that might blow up Trapper's carefully constructed existence. After all, Trapper has been burying that part of himself for a long time—until Hawkeye came along and destroyed his defenses.

Now Hawkeye doesn't know whether it's better to keep pushing, to force Trapper to face that part of himself, or to back off, to play it off like a joke, like he didn't yearn for Trapper like he had. Even though the reality was more like a tornado than a rainbow, Hawkeye isn't sorry. _I'm so damaged_, he thinks, and wonders what Trapper is thinking.

And then Trapper speaks into the oppressive dark, which has been thick with regrets and recriminations and Hawkeye's felt like he could see them all scrolling by on the insides of his eyelids as he tried to sleep, even as he knew they were both wakeful.

"Why'd ya do it, Hawk?" he asks, and his voice sounds shredded, like toilet paper after shrapnel's ripped through the latrine.

"Well, I'll do anything that's easy," he responds, "but you may just have to be the tiniest bit more specific."

"Ya taunted me." Trapper sounds miserable. Well, as he should be, really. Hawkeye's not precisely angry with him, but it isn't like Trapper shouldn't be angry with _himself._ He acted against the type of person Hawkeye knows him to be.

"I taunt everyone, Trap," Hawkeye replies in exhaustion. "Just because you're my best friend doesn't give you the get out of jail free card."

"Ya don't—ya know what I mean. I never saw ya tempt Frank with—"

"Trapper, I've spread my queerness far and wide. I can't imagine how you haven't noticed."

"I thought it was just funny business, ya know, more ways of mockin' the army," Trapper says, and he sounds really petulant about it. Like he's still angry it turned out not only to be true but that he's the one that got caught in the trap.

"You know me, always ready to tie one on if it'll make the army look bad," Hawkeye quips. Then winces slightly, because probably the last thing Trapper wants right now is sarcastic humor. Not that Hawkeye can turn it off. It's practically in the corpuscles of his blood, it's so intrinsic to his nature.

"Ya didn' answer me, Hawk. Why'd ya do it? Why'd ya strike at _me_?" There's a long pause, during which a shell explodes. Closer than before. Hawkeye wonders if Trapper's that close to immolation. "Ya messed me up."

"I hardly think that's an accurate representation," Hawkeye fires back. "If I recall correctly, it was _you_ who bent me over in the supply tent and—"

"_Don'_ say it." Another pregnant pause.

"I'm just saying—"

"Well, fuckin' don't." Trapper shifts and the cot creaks under his weight. "Frank ain't here right now, but anyone could hear us. An' I ain't wanna be overheard."

"Trap, with the shells exploding at the front, _I_ can barely hear _you_. No one—"

"You're avoidin' the question, Hawk." Every time Trapper says his nickname again now, like maybe he's forgotten not to be friends, Hawkeye feels a little thrill. The same little thrill he once nicknamed Shirley in third grade, or Patrick in fifth, and has been "Trapper" ever since he got to Korea.

"Oh, for—" Hawkeye exhales gustily through his nose. "Because I _liked_ you, you big blonde idiot. I may've been casting lures all over in my inherent queerness, but it was you I wanted. Happy?"

From the way the tent goes dead silent, Hawkeye thinks that admitting to his Trapper-thrill has made the real thing disgusted all over again. So, not happy, then.

"We're really going to have to do something about that," he says in resignation. "A good doctor doesn't judge."

"Ya judge plenty, Hawkeye." Trapper's back to using his full name. Full nickname. Whatever. Great.

"Only the spineless weasel and his pink confectioned army major paramour," Hawkeye replies.

"I'm done talkin' about this. Goin' to sleep."

But even though Hawkeye listens for it until he passes out himself, he never hears Trapper's breathing shift from awake to asleep.

++

"I'm sending you both on R&R," Henry says the following morning. "You both look worn to a frizzle." He shuffles some papers on his desk. "Rad—!" he says, just as the door opens and Radar trots in. "Here you are, sir—"

"Get me those—"

"The R&R requisition forms that you asked for, sir," Radar says even as Henry is muttering about R&R requisition forms. Henry glances up towards the sky.

"How many times do I have to _tell_ you, Radar, don't give me what I want until I want it!"

"Yes, sir. Captains McIntyre and Pierce sure look worn to a frizzle, sir," Radar adds, before he ducks back out the door. Hawkeye is tempted to throw Henry's stapler after him; he didn't spend a restful night and it wasn't due to the constant shelling.

"Together?" Trapper asks, sounding constipated.

"If you need a hand," Hawkeye says, "the mess tent is open. That'll take care of any problems you're having." Trapper gives him a confused and vaguely angry look, and Hawkeye is upset to realize that Trapper didn't seem to read his mind like he always used to.

"Yes, McIntyre, together. You always beg to go together. I don't know what's going on, but this might even help you work out your differences."

"Please say you're sending us to Tokyo to get drunk and misbehave in geisha houses," Hawkeye says gleefully. It's too bad Trap looks like someone tried to pry off his toenails, really. Because this could be fun.

If he gets Trapper drunk enough, will Trapper be willing to fall back into bed with him? Maybe this time Hawkeye will be able to have an orgasm too. Trapper drunk might be more considerate.

Or, he supposes, drunk Trapper might try to kill him if he puts the moves on him. Is it worth it, Hawkeye wonders?

"I wish you wouldn't, but yes," Henry says, sounding resigned. "Go get drunk and proposition the geishas inappropriately. Just come back looking a little more relaxed. I need my surgeons in the best form they can be, and that's not this, whatever this is."

"I think I'd rather stay here, Henry," Trapper starts to argue, but Henry holds up a hand.

"Not this time, McIntyre. Go be Pierce's better half. Or worse, I don't know. Just get both of you on a chopper."

Trapper's face is red, but Hawkeye can't tell if he's flushed with anger, embarrassment, or something else. Hawkeye wants it to be lust, for Trapper to desire him, but he doesn't know if it's too early to hope for that. After all, as best he can tell, Trapper is still trying to pretend he didn't fuck Hawkeye and then cry about it.

"Just remember," Hawkeye says, "there's no crying during sex."

That earns him a glare, and Trapper exits Henry's office without another word, just his boots stomping angrily against the floor. Hawkeye shrugs.

"Something I said?" he asks Henry, who rolls his eyes.

"If I knew that, I'd understand you two better. As it is, I have no idea what you're saying half the time, and the other half the time, I have no say in your idea-ing. I mean…"

"Don't worry about it, Henry," Hawkeye says. "I'll try to straighten him out." _Or make him embrace his homosexual side_, Hawkeye adds silently, before he follows Trapper out of the office.

++

Hawkeye doesn't actually have to get Trapper drunk; he does that on his own. He spends the whole time in the bar with martini after martini, giving Hawkeye dark looks the entire time, like he thinks Hawkeye somehow bamboozled Henry into this.

Hawkeye would like to take responsibility—just think, the talent it takes to finagle R&R to Tokyo—but ultimately, he really had nothing to do with it. And if they _are_ worn to a frizzle, it's most likely Trapper's fault, anyway.

In any event, around midnight Trapper's so far gone that Hawkeye practically has to carry him back to his hotel room, and he doesn't even complain about Hawkeye's hands on him. But boy, is Trapper heavy, Hawkeye thinks as he grunts and drags Trapper's boneless weight to the seventh floor.

"Heya, Hawk," Trap mumbles as they approach his room. "Why ya angry wi' me?"

Honestly surprised, Hawkeye replies,

"I'm not angry with you, Trap. That's like being angry that a puppy is a dog."

"That makes no sense," Trapper says, as Hawkeye wrestles with the key in the lock. Maybe it doesn't, to Trapper in his current state of total drunkenness. But to Hawkeye, it's the difference between calling a cat a dog and a dog what it is. Trapper is, unless Hawkeye is very much mistaken, a homosexual trying to be a straight man—and Hawkeye wants to make him fall out of that closet.

"If anything—" but here Hawkeye pauses. Tell Trapper the truth, that he's been the one at Hawkeye's throat, or keep it to himself and try to take advantage of Trapper's less-hostile behavior at the moment? "If anything, I think you're too drunk to understand whether someone is angry with you or not."

"Thas not so," Trapper slurs, his Boston accent becoming even broader. "Ya have been draggin' me this whole way. I can walk…"

Hawkeye pushes open the door and lets go of Trapper, who stumbles unevenly a few steps before collapsing face first on the bed.

"Bang up job on keeping your feet, Trap," Hawkeye says, with a Bronx cheer as he shuts the door. But hey, at least he's on the bed already. Hawkeye watches with ill-concealed amusement as Trapper flaps around until he's faceup, albeit half-twisted oddly at the waist.

"How did we get here?" Trapper asks, then lifts his head to peer blearily at Hawkeye. "There's two o' ya, Hawk. Are ya as drunk as I am?"

"Not a chance. I was your designated walk-you-to-your-room-er." Trapper laughs and it's such a beautiful sound; Hawkeye feels like he hasn't heard Trapper laugh in ages.

Mindful of the fact that he doesn't want to spoil it, Hawkeye crosses to Trapper and carefully untwists his lower body so he'll be more comfortable; he's rewarded with a beautiful smile that showcases the overbite he loves so much. He can't count the times he's seen Trapper smile just like this and wanted to kiss him right on the teeth. How is it that Trapper never noticed his feelings, Hawkeye wonders? His very-evident lust?

Or maybe it's a good thing Trapper never noticed, Hawkeye muses as he sets to undoing the knots in the laces of Trapper's boots. Because Trapper's reaction to Hawkeye's secret hasn't exactly been a positive one.

"Hey. Hey, Hawk. Whaddya doin'?"

"I'm taking your boots off so you can sleep more comfortably," Hawkeye says, hoping Trapper won't get angry, won't let that beautiful smile go to waste.

"Lemme go," Trapper says, voice gravelly from dry-as-dust gin. "I can do it."

"The state you're in? You'd be as likely to harpoon a whale," Hawkeye says, finishing one boot and starting on the other as it falls to the floor with a thump.

"How d'ya know I never harpooned a whale?" Trapper asks with perfect sincerity.

"And that's how I know you're drunk," Hawkeye replies. "Too drunk to remember this conversation, certainly." It's got to be against the rules of best friends everywhere, Hawkeye thinks, as he liberates Trapper from his second boot and leans over him on the bed. Too drunk to remember the conversation—does that equal to too drunk to recall anything else?

It's underhanded to be sure, but Hawkeye is both enchanted with Trapper and wondering just what he can get away with when he lowers his head and lets their mouths meet in a soft kiss. It's just that, at first, lips on lips with the faintest pressure, until Trapper parts his—on a breath? to speak?—and Hawkeye takes shameless advantage, licking his way into Trapper's mouth.

He tastes of the still, and it feels like coming home. Well, back to Korea, at any rate.

Then, even as Trapper responds, he's shoving at Hawkeye's chest and turning his head, barely allowing himself even a moment to understand that, for that brief second between giving in and giving up, he'd been kissing Hawkeye back.

Managing to make space between them, Trapper says belligerently,

"Hey, whaddya doin'? I ain't no homo, Hawkeye!"

"Are you so sure about that?" Hawkeye asks, raising an eyebrow. "A few days ago, _you_ kissed _me_. And yesterday you lived up to your nickname, trapped me in the supply shed, and fucked me against a wall. Without even the common decency of a reach-around, I might add."

Trapper's lips set in a mulish line. "I don' remembah that." His Boston accent is now so thick Hawkeye thinks he could chew on it.

"I think that's a lie. Shall we find out?" Hawkeye asks casually. Trapper looks at him again, scowling.

"How can ya possibly prove it?" he asks, and Hawkeye smiles. Evilly.

"Trap," he says, "are you seriously telling me you don't remember what it felt like to penetrate me? To sink all those delicious inches of your cock inside me?"

Trapper flushes.

"See? You do remember. Want to try again?"

Trapper glances away again, but the guilty flush remains. Hawkeye straddles him on the bed and starts to unbuckle his belt; Trapper goes even redder, if possible, from cherry blossom to red lantern, but he doesn't actually resist.

Remembering their time in the supply shed, Hawkeye pauses just after he gets Trap's belt undone and carefully, gently turns Trapper's face to his. Trapper's eyes are wide, more green than brown, and frightened—but there is desire there, too, lurking in their depths.

Right. Hawkeye can't be the one to initiate this. Trapper has to come to terms with things on his own. So Hawkeye leans down, kisses him quickly on the mouth, and rolls onto his back, lying next to Trapper.

"See, what I really want is to strip you out of those fatigues, rub that truly impressive cock until it's hard for me, and then sink down until my ass meets your hipbones. But I'm not going to push you, Trap. Not with anything other than words. If you want me, you have to show me."

This could be an enormous mistake. Maybe he'd be better off pushing Trapper into it, causing those last walls to break. But he doesn't want Trapper to wake up tomorrow and feel like the homo in camp raped him when he was vulnerable—that won't solve anything. Hawkeye wishes he weren't so sober. Being sober means he can't claim his own inhibitions were interfered with.

"Or I can go find a geisha house and get drunk on sake," Hawkeye mumbles, more to himself than anything. But before he can get up, Trapper's hand is touching his jaw, just at the angle below his ear. He caresses it softly, and Hawkeye begins to hope.

Maybe Trapper is drunk enough to overcome his homophobia from being so deeply closeted after all.

"I could take a geisha right now," Trapper murmurs, slurring a bit still. Then he leans up and over Hawkeye. "You would make a pretty geisha."

"Now I _know_ you're drunk," Hawkeye says. But despite his resolution to let Trapper dictate the pace, he cups Trapper's chin and pulls him down so that they're kissing again, just to give him a nudge in the right direction. Maybe it will help. Maybe it's a terrible idea. Maybe Hawkeye is a wizard of terrible ideas, but just now he can't seem to help himself.

Besides, just because he agreed to Trapper fucking him didn't make that a great idea, or make it a great idea to repeat the experience. But dammit, he wants to anyway, and he's gotta try, or his Trapper-thrill will burn up like a thrown grenade, and it might take the both of them with it—and he owes it to Trapper to try to help him heal the wounds he bears deep down, where he's splintered himself in two to try not to be homosexual.

To try to be normal, be straight, when being homosexual isn't anything to be ashamed of, in Hawkeye's book. It doesn't matter that doctors think it's a disease—

"You know, Trap, I'm a doctor too. Got the diploma and everything, and it didn't even come out of a Crackerjack box. So I can tell you that, in my honest opinion, I'm not sick. Not even if I like fucking men. Or you. I like you, Trap—let that be a lesson to you."

"I don' want ya to like me. I'm an awful human bein'." Trapper seems fascinated by Hawkeye's lips, though. Despite the fact that their second—well, third, technically—kiss was even briefer than the last one, Trapper isn't retreating behind his own hand-drawn enemy lines. No, he's still exposed to Hawkeye's mortars, and when he dips his head and captures Hawkeye's lips all on his own, Hawkeye's little Trapper-thrill lights up like a lit firecracker, yelling _all right, let's go!_ and Hawkeye has to struggle to tamp down his ardor so he doesn't terrify Trapper. Trapper, who is initiating a kiss without feeling angry about it.

Trapper, whose body slowly lowers to his, just long enough for them to touch, full-body, before he jumps back as if scalded. The expression on his face might have been funny in any other circumstance, but now it just makes Hawkeye sad. He's waiting for Trapper to punch him again, or throw up, or do something indicative of disgust, but instead he manages—clumsily—to climb off Hawkeye and start shimmying out of his pants.

"Hawk," he says, "turn over. An' did ya bring—?"

Hawkeye hopes this is going to a good place rather than a bad one, and nods, extricating the tube of surgical jelly from his own pocket before he unbuckles his belt, kicks out of his own olive drab formal, and rolls over, propping himself up on his elbows.

For the longest time, there's just the sound of Trapper's breathing, labored with drink or possibly even something else, something better?

Then Trap's fingers spread Hawkeye's cheeks and he groans, and Hawkeye has to reach back and grab for his hand.

"Wait! Wait, Trap. I need prep first." Well, he doesn't always, but Trapper doesn't need to know that, not with the size of the gun he's packing. Trapper's hand, slick with surgical jelly, brushes against Hawkeye's fingers, and it's enough lubrication to get things started.

Someday, if things keep improving, he's going to get Trapper to do this part, too, but for now he quickly scissors himself open and then hopes for the best.

Which turns into a grunt of pain when Trapper just shoves it in with no prelude, just one second, empty and willing, and the next, filled to bursting and aching.

Much like their supply tent interlude, Trapper thrusts and grunts and batters at Hawkeye without any consideration for Hawkeye's pleasure, a fact that Hawkeye doesn't think he's even aware of. Trapper is very far gone on gin and isn't very good at this sober, so it's no wonder he's not very good now.

But Hawkeye wants more. He wants Trapper to _want_ him, to admit to the fact that he does. Because he does, right? Hawkeye is pretty sure. And as Trapper pushes into him, an angled thrust that leaves Hawkeye gasping and dripping—though he's certain that Trapper has no idea what spot he just hit or how special it is—Trap's hand slips in the sweat of Hawkeye's back and hips, and Hawkeye, bending his face to the mattress, grabs that hand and tugs it to his erection.

Trapper's thrusts stop. Utterly. There's a long, low moan—Hawkeye can't tell what kind—and then Trapper's hand jerks _away_, instead of _toward_. He pulls back, almost out of Hawkeye's body entirely, then slides back home, this time more gently, though Hawkeye thinks that might be an accident. Then there's a drop of something warm onto his back. A sniffle, and a few more warm drops, and then Trapper is wrapping his arms around Hawkeye's chest and shoving his damp face into Hawkeye's spine.

Trapper is crying.

This isn't good. Is he disgusted with himself again? Should Hawkeye be expecting to go back to the 4077th black and blue? But, even though Trapper is crying, he's clutching Hawkeye like a security blanket. That has to count for something, right?

Trapper's last thrust had been gentle, but despite his death grip on Hawkeye's middle and the tears mixing with their mingled sweat, he starts to pump his hips again. Enough that he suddenly goes very taut and still against Hawkeye, all muscles locking up, before he shudders and releases into Hawkeye's warm and now very wet passage.

He hiccups once, lists to the side, and lands next to Hawkeye on the bed, his face smushed against the blankets and sprawled halfway on his stomach. Most likely passed out from all the alcohol. Hawkeye supposes he's lucky Trapper got it up at all.

Hawkeye sighs. Ass dripping come steadily onto the blanket, he wraps his own fingers around his straining erection and tugs perfunctorily a few times before coming, a thin, disappointing spasm of pleasure that, while at least it's _something_, is nowhere near the completion he wanted.

Then he pushes himself back into his clothes and moves to the adjoining room, his room, to sleep. Better Trapper wake up alone. He might not remember—but there's ample evidence to let him know what went on.

And Hawkeye is a coward who doesn't want his face there to beat on when Trapper regains consciousness.

++

Either someone's pounding on the door, or Hawkeye had too much to drink last night and something's pounding in his head—and he knows he wasn't wasted last night. So he pulls his head out from underneath the pillow and tries to make out the time on the clock on the bedside table.

It's early. Like, reveille early. So it's not the proprietor coming to throw him out for sleeping past his check-out time. Which means, by the Sherlock Holmes way of eliminating the impossible and the improbable—that it's the MPs come to arrest him for sodomy and homosexual fornication—that it must be Trapper at the door.

If only he could tell from those pounding knocks whether Trapper was furious enough to start pounding on his face when he answered the door. That doesn't really matter, though; he has to answer the door, doesn't he? Because if he doesn't, the management might show up to inquire about the noise, and Hawkeye doesn't want to be there for those explanations—that is, if Trapper gives any, and it isn't Hawkeye doing the explaining.

Though he doesn't want to be there for the explanations even then.

Sighing, he tosses off the covers and grabs his red robe and throws it on; would Trapper's temper be even worse because Hawkeye let him sleep in the wet spot? There's a pause, blessed silence, before a voice hisses,

"Open up, Hawk. I know ya don't sleep that deeply."

Hawkeye curses the distance that's grown between them over the last while because he can't identify, from Trapper's tone, the mood he's in. He's not really sure he would be able to tell even if he sees Trapper's face—something he alas, cannot put off any longer. He flips open the chain lock and opens the door.

Trapper's eyes are slightly too wide, his mouth parted, his cheeks flushed. Hawkeye tries to figure out if it's anger, denial, or—if he were really lucky—desire, but fails. Trapper has become an enigma to him.

"Do you know how early it is?" Hawkeye asks in a whisper, glancing around the empty hallway, whitewashed walls bare and spartan. He wants to yank Trapper inside, but doesn't dare touch him, not right now. "You better come in. How is it that you could make that racket without starting up a marching band in your head?"

"My head?" There's a second where Trapper looks confused, and then he stumbles inside, his face blanching white. Apparently the hangover had taken a backseat to the wet spot on the sheets. Hawkeye shoves the door closed and leans back against it, trying to look casual, and not as if he's considering bolting out the door the second this might turn violent. "Ohhh," Trapper groans, sounding almost as sexually stimulating to Hawkeye as if he were in the throes of passion and not pain, "I didn' even notice. Did ya have to point it out?"

"I'm sorry," Hawkeye says inanely. Behind him, his hand is still on the knob. "What did you want?"

"Hawk, be honest. What happened last night?" Trapper turns to face him, his skin still pale, his eyes hazel shadows above dark circles. Trapper really doesn't look that great. Hawkeye wants to point him towards the toilet, just in case, but he has to have faith that Trapper will get there if he needs to. Besides, he isn't certain that the wan complexion and such isn't from his scrambled memories from last night.

"You don't remember?" Hawkeye cautiously begins to pull his hand away from the knob. Trapper rakes back sweaty blond curls and gives a minute shake of his head, but then he focuses more sharply on Hawkeye's face.

No, not his face; his collarbones. Shit. What kind of marks did Trapper leave on him last night? Is it too late to try to pretend they both spent the night with a geisha? _Different_ geishas, in different rooms?

"I think ya better tell me, Hawk, and don' lie. Did ya take advantage of me?"

Hawkeye wants to laugh. Or maybe cry. Trapper is huge, imposing; his build is such that he could easily overpower Hawkeye if he wanted—and he has. Not only that, but the irony is there to dig at with a shovel, it's so thick: Trapper practically raped Hawkeye in the supply tent and he has the gall, the nerve, to get on Hawkeye's case about whether he returned the favor last night when Trapper was drunk and vulnerable?

And maybe it's true: maybe he did take advantage. After all, for all that Trapper consented, for all that he did the heavy lifting—even for the fact that he's the only one who got off during the partnership aspects of the activities—he _was_ very drunk. Hawkeye settles for a loose shrug.

"You seemed pretty eager to get on with it," he says, and winces in unison with Trapper. Trapper steps forward, but it's hesitant, not threatening, so Hawkeye tries not to press harder against the door. "I asked what you wanted, if that's what you're asking."

"Ya had no right," Trap says softly, probably in deference to his aching head. "No right at all. I told ya and told ya, I ain't no homo, and gettin' me drunk so you can get your rocks off ain't right, Hawkeye."

"Now, wait a minute! I didn't get you drunk, you idiot. You did that to yourself. I may have been there, and—" but he stops, because Trapper's cheeks are suffused with red again. He tries not to cower against the door like a battered wife. "—and you are lying to yourself, Trapper McIntyre, about what you want. You wanted _me_ in the supply tent, and you wanted _me_ last night, in your bed. So go suck an egg and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

His anger has always come at all the wrong times, and this is no exception. Trapper's eyes narrow, and he stalks toward Hawkeye. But when he reaches him, he doesn't punch him, he doesn't do anything more violent than grate out, with great sour humor,

"I'll thank ya to stay away from me from now on, Pierce. I'm gonna request a transfer as soon as we get back to the 4077th. I can't live in the same camp as you anymore. You're sick, a pervert, and you're tryna corrupt me, and I ain't gonna live with it. Just be grateful I ain't gonna bring ya up on charges," and then he reaches around Hawkeye—their hands brush as Hawkeye relinquishes the knob—and Trapper shoves past him and back out into the hall.

Well. That went well.

++

Hawkeye doesn't see Trapper again at all until it's time to check out of the hotel, and he suspects that he only sees him then because they have a flight back to camp together. And then Trapper walks obviously grudgingly beside him, till they get on the plane. Their seats adjoin, but Trapper contorts himself not to touch Hawkeye—and Hawkeye would wonder if it's the anger, except he doesn't really think so.

He thinks it's more likely that Trapper would _like_ it if they touched, and so he's killing himself to keep it from happening. Hawkeye wonders how long he's really known about his own "perversion" and if he's been killing himself inside for his whole life.

The thing about Trapper is that he bottles up his emotions anyway, and this is a pretty devastating secret to keep—he can't come to terms with it, and it's ripping him to shreds inside. Knowing all this keeps Hawkeye from really being angry, but he is disappointed. He wants to help—he's a doctor, he always wants to help—but there isn't anything he can do. Trapper has to get out of his own way.

And then they're in the chopper together, and crushed against each other, and Trapper refuses to look at him. The pilot, along with the noise from the rotors, keeps them from trying to have a private conversation, if Trapper would even speak to him, anyway.

The chopper ride is interminable, and when they get back to camp, Henry is waiting for them in a Jeep driven by Radar. He smiles perkily until they debark the chopper, and then his face twists into confusion.

"Radar—" Henry begins, just as Radar says,

"Yes, they do look worse than when they left, sir," as Henry is asking, "do they look worse than when they left?"

Hawkeye forces himself not to look at Trapper. His ass is still sore, and his ego is bruised, and he's afraid that isn't the only thing Trapper has managed to bruise. He might have broken something deep inside Hawkeye, something tender and soft, and Hawkeye is afraid the damage might be permanent.

"Okie dokie," Henry says, "what happened? You look worse than when you left."

"I told you I didn't want to be on R&R with _him_," Trapper says, rather venomously. Henry's confusion melts into shock.

"McIntyre, you're out of line," he says, even as Radar says, "do you want me to get the transfer papers, sir?"

"I'd—"

"No," Henry says decisively, causing Radar to look at him with wide eyes.

"No, sir? As in don't get the transfer papers for Captain McIntyre, sir?"

"Get in the Jeep," Henry says. "Both of you. Stop looking like a kicked puppy, Pierce, and you, McIntyre, stop looking like the master that kicked him."

This is awkward phrasing at best, and Hawkeye winces. He steals a glance at Trapper, who's looking thunderous, and then, when he catches Henry staring at him with his usually jovial face turned into a frown, he clears all expression from his face.

Trapper repeats his act from the plane, refusing to get close to Hawkeye in the back of the Jeep as Radar drives back to camp.

++

"Will Cap'ns Pierce and McIntyre please report to the principal's office like the couple of misbehaving children they are?" comes over the PA as Hawkeye is shrugging into his red robe. He carefully doesn't look at Trapper as he moves towards the Swamp door.

++

"No," Henry says, shaking his head, twisting around in his chair and dropping his father's pen into his football mug. Hawkeye wants to say something, to keep Henry from drinking his likely-spiked coffee afterward, but he's too busy feeling ashamed as Henry says, "You were supposed to straighten him out, Pierce."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Henry," Hawkeye says, throwing himself into a chair and putting his feet up on the desk. If only Henry knew _why_ and _how_ it was impossible, but it's not something Hawkeye can confess to, even if it wasn't Trapper's secret and not his.

"No," Henry repeats, glaring ineffectually at Trapper, who is summarily unimpressed by Henry on pretty much any day that ends in "y" and twice today, when he's determined to get as far from Hawkeye as the army will let him. Except, of course, that he's going up against Henry, who also looks pretty determined. "You may not have a transfer, Trapper. I—"

"Then transfer Pierce!" Trapper explodes, and the door bangs inward, Radar standing there.

"Don't drink your coffee, sir, there's ink in it now. I'll bring you fresh. Are you sure you don't want—"

"—I don't want transfer papers just yet, Radar, but how did you know I needed more coffee? Make sure you make it special. Like I like it."

"Plenty of whiskey, sir, I got it. I'll return shortly. Sirs." Radar nods to Trapper and Hawkeye, looking very solemn, as if he might know more than he's letting on of what's going on.

When Radar shuts the door, apparently popping in to make sure no one was getting murdered, Henry resumes.

"You're two of my best surgeons. I need you both, and I need you both here, in the 4077th. The army assigned you this way and I'm too lucky to look that gift horse in the mouth. So find a way to make up." Henry lifts his coffee mug, sees the pen sticking out of it, and sighs. He raises his voice: "Rada—"

"Brought you a fresh coffee, sir!" Radar says before Henry can finish calling for him. Henry puts his head in his hand.

"How many times, Radar, do I—"

"I know, sir, I'm not supposed to give you what you want before you want it, but you have to admit, it's much more efficient this way, sir." Radar pours a generous tot of whiskey into the mug and hands it across the desk. Hawkeye doesn't think it's an accident that he's standing between him and Trapper. Too bad he's too short to really hide Trapper's mutinous expression.

"Dismissed," Henry says, and Hawkeye slouches out of the room. He can hear the heavy, familiar tread of Trapper's boots behind him, but no matter how much he wants to, he doesn't look back.

He wouldn't want Trapper to turn into a pillar of salt, after all.

++

Later that night, when Hawkeye comes back to the Swamp after a shift in post-op, he finds Trapper lying back on his cot, staring at the ceiling of the tent, with that strange sort of liquid quality to his limbs that suggests heavy drinking. And when Hawkeye goes to pour himself a martini, the still is dry.

He'd like to think Trapper didn't drink the entire still by himself, but who knows? And he didn't know how much alcohol was left in it, so maybe he didn't drink himself to death. Either way, he looks half-passed out, his head rolling towards the door, towards Hawkeye, when the tent door slams.

Frank had gone out just as Hawkeye came in, going off to his own shift in post-op, and as soon as Hawkeye sits on his cot to take his boots off, Trapper mumbles something. Hawkeye can't hear him, though he can tell the words are slurred.

"I thought you weren't speaking to me," Hawkeye says archly, dropping one boot to the floor and getting started on the other. "Now, let's see, where's that bedpan so I can soak my feet…" he mutters, eyes quickly flicking through the Swamp looking for it. But his gaze is arrested by Trapper attempting to stand up, with something less than success. "The kid in bed 3 wouldn't stay stable, so I must have jumped up to check on him a million times."

He doesn't know why he's talking to Trapper; it's not like it's going to be a constructive exercise. Or why he feels the need to justify soaking his sore feet. But all of a sudden, Trapper's wobbling towards him, and Hawkeye is so busy staring at that flushed, dear face that he barely notices Trapper carefully—with that extra cautious air drunks get—positioning the bedpan beneath his feet.

"I've always been fascinated by your hair," Trapper says. "It's so black, it's like a… a void, or a… an abyss…"

"Go lie down, Trapper, you're drunk," Hawkeye says as he dumps his other boot on the floor. But the bedpan is at his feet, and there's already water in it and—

"You didn't puke in this, did you? To demonstrate your opinion on my perversions?" But even as he's scrutinizing the bedpan, Trapper's words really register. "Wait, what?" he says oh-so-eloquently. Trapper's fascinated by his hair? Hawkeye would think that's crazy, but then again, he's often considered running his fingers through Trapper's hair, straightening the curls however temporarily.

"And your eyes…" Trapper reaches out, brushes Hawkeye's hair up, away from his eyes, and he's staring intently into them. Staring so hard and so long that even Hawkeye, with his easy tendency towards sex, starts to feel uncomfortable. Is he planning to punch him in the eye again, when he realizes what he's doing?

Trapper is drunk, and Hawkeye—

But his thought is chopped off abruptly when Trapper leans in and kisses him. His lips are soft and faintly flavored by gin, a taste that gets exponentially stronger when he opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. Hawkeye had been about to tell himself he wasn't giving in to drunk Trapper again, wasn't getting involved in that storm of anger waiting to happen, lurking behind the drunken lust, but the kiss makes his resolve waver and disappear.

He grabs the back of Trapper's neck and grips it tightly, hanging onto him and hoping that the kisses will continue, that Trapper will fuck his mouth until he's breathless and gasping, desperate for air but just as desperate for Trapper's lips and tongue. He'd drink Trapper's breath right from the source just to keep kissing him.

But Trapper doesn't try to pull away. Instead his hands are all over Hawkeye, touching him here and caressing him there, as if he can't get enough tactile input from Hawkeye's body. His mouth becomes sloppy, the kiss lacking a certain direction as Trapper gets distracted by Hawkeye's left nipple, his right bicep.Hawkeye steers the kiss now, and then Trapper's fumbling one-handed with Hawkeye's belt.

He can't get it open, though, and growls in his throat in frustration before tearing his mouth away. Hawkeye figures that this is when he'll come to his senses—but he's forgotten however briefly that Trapper is fortified by liquid courage and unlikely to stop until he gets off. In fact, Hawkeye's not sure Trapper realizes that he's reaching for Hawkeye's hard on in his army pants.

"Hawk," he rumbles, throaty and aroused, voice gone straight to utter sex. He doesn't say anything else, but Hawkeye figures what he wants is for him to undo his belt, but he pauses, hesitates, catching his breath.

"This is a bad idea," Hawkeye says. When has he ever felt so much that _he_ needs to be the voice of reason? That's Trapper's job. "I'm not going to help you plan my murder in the morning, Trap, sorry." He pushes him back.

Trapper falls onto his ass. His eyes are wide, very green in the brown, and startled. He sits there a moment, as if he's been shocked back to consciousness from a beautiful but terrifying dream, and then he rolls onto his hands, shoves himself off the floor, and practically runs back to his own bunk.

Once he's lying down, his scratchy olive drab blanket pulled up to his shoulders, he says, just loudly enough for Hawkeye to hear,

"Thought it was what ya wanted. Didn' think you were gonna turn me down."

"I'm not that easy, Trap," Hawkeye says, but his erection is throbbing and so is his head, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He wants to get up, to finish what they started—what _Trapper_ started—but he knows he shouldn't, and he doesn't, even though he knows he's going to regret it.

"Yeah, ya are," Trapper mutters, then pulls the cord to turn out his light. And in the ensuing dark—Hawkeye hadn't even had time to turn his own light on yet—Hawkeye reflects that Trapper's right.

It's out of character for him to keep sex at arm's length, especially when it's with someone he's pursued.

"But it isn't worth it," he softly tells the cricket-filled dark, then flops backward, arm over his eyes, to try to sleep.

++

Hawkeye wakes up to the sun slanting right into his eyes, and when he rolls over to get it out of his face—it's too cheery for this place, the bright splash of golden that reminds him of happier times, and doesn't belong in a war zone—Trapper is staring at him.

Like, inches away. Once, when Hawkeye was young, he begged his father to let him do a favor for a friend who was going away on vacation, and they watched his cat for him. And that's what the cat used to do: climb onto Hawkeye's pillow and scare him half to death when he opened his eyes in the morning and those slit-pupilled eyes were gazing directly into his, about a millimeter away from his nose.

These eyes are undeniably human, beautiful green-brown hazel, and Hawkeye wants to let go, to rappel down into their depths, but he knows better. The thing is, he's good at reading Trapper's eyes, and Trapper isn't angry. Hawkeye knows it's morning because of the sun, and he's pretty sure Trapper's sober by now, so the ten thousand dollar question is: why isn't he _angry_?

"Trap?" he mumbles, mouth feeling full of cotton, and he didn't even drink last night. At least, he doesn't think he did. "What are you doing? I promise I will wake up." That statement is inane, but he's too sleepy to make a good wisecrack.

"I'm sorry," Trapper says. He sounds miserable. And as well he should; the sun must feel like a spike being driven between his brows. There is no way Trapper doesn't have a ringing bell of a hangover. "I ain't got any excuse, Hawkeye, but…" he trails off and Hawkeye inhales.

"Could you, I don't know, drop the staring-cat act and step back a little? I'm feeling crowded, and this tent was small to begin with." He watches as Trapper leans back on his haunches, still staked out at the side of Hawkeye's bunk, looking miserable, certainly, but not because of a hangover. Hawkeye stares at the rough, unshaven cheeks and chin, the dark circles under the beautiful eyes, and has a flash of understanding.

Trapper _remembers_. He's aware of what happened last night, and if he's apologizing, then he must know he was the one who instigated the whole thing. Hell, if Hawkeye's lucky, Trapper will realize that Hawkeye was the one to shut it down.

"I know ya probably can't forgive me, but I'd be obliged if you could try to forget it." He finally starts to move away, turning his head, exposing his neck, and Hawkeye wants to kiss him there, but he already knows what a bad idea it is to nurture this crush—to allow it to grow into something much more difficult to kill.

"I'm not angry," Hawkeye says, "but, Trap—"

"It was a stupid drunken mistake," Trapper says. "I can't… I can't even stand to touch _myself_ now. I took a shower and used too much water, and Henry thinks I'm crazy, and…" but he stops there, dead, as if assaulted by a mortar shell unexploded right in front of his eyes.

"I know, I bet you say that to all the guys," Hawkeye says, and knows it's immediately the wrong thing to say. Trapper stiffens, and gets to his feet, and retreats to his side of the Swamp.

"Jus' forget it, 'kay?" he says. "I don' wanna talk about it anymore."

Hawkeye pulls his robe on. "I'm going to shower, if there's any water left," he announces, and steps through the swinging door of the tent. There's nothing he can do. Trapper didn't seem like he was going to make a lunge for Hawkeye again—though those moments when he was inches from his face made Hawkeye nervous—but he's obviously still struggling with his homophobia as much as ever.

But there's nothing Hawkeye can do for him. For so long, they've been a twosome, always had each other's backs. But now… no, this is something Trapper has to do on his own. 

++

After that, it's hard not to notice Trapper drinking more and more. Sure, he still tries to be sober for surgery, and whenever they're expecting casualties he doesn't touch the gin in the still or the liquor in the officer's club, but besides those occasions, it's suddenly rare for Trapper to be sober.

He drinks gin when he wakes up. He has a chaser at lunch before he goes to the mess tent. He has several martinis before he can sleep. Hawkeye watches it all with growing concern, but there's nothing he can do. If he tried to say something, he'd probably just get punched again. Trapper, after that morning where he apologized, as barely spoken a word to Hawkeye: he's said about as many sentences to him as he's been sober, and casualties have been light over the last two weeks, just a few long shifts in the OR sprawled across the days.

And for two weeks, everything between them is quiet, almost ominously so. Trapper doesn't stare at Hawkeye. He doesn't proposition him while drunk, and he barely looks at him when he's sober. But then they have a period of heavy incoming wounded, and they're in surgery for over three straight days with barely any breaks for cat naps. In response to the stress, Henry sends Frank on R&R—he complained loudly that he worked harder than everyone else, which of course is a complete fabrication—and Trapper drinks even more the night Frank leaves than usual.

And Hawkeye, who'd collapsed onto his bunk without removing scrubs, boots, or the mask still dangling around his neck, is awakened by clumsy fingers untying his scrub pants. He squints into the darkness; the lights in the compound are very bright on his head, which is aching with exhaustion, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

When they do, he sees it isn't a pretty nurse or even Margaret—as outlandish as that might be, Hawkeye harbors fantasies—but Trapper.

Of course.

Hawkeye really should have known. Trapper's blind drunk, emphasis on blind; will he notice that, when he gets the scrub pants open, Hawkeye has some anatomy that no nurse has? (Well, except for the male ones, but there aren't that many of those.)

"Trap," he says through a mouthful of what feels like marbles; his exhaustion is causing him to slur; he's not even sure he's intelligible. "Stop."

Trapper glances up, and the light catches in his hazel eyes, making them into dazzling, glistening gems in his pale face. He blinks, then smiles, slow and lazy.

"Hawk," he says, and he's slurring too, but obviously not for the same reason. "Hawkeye. Hawk." He's smiling goofily now, eyes gone hazy with gin and lust—not the tonic Trapper needed—and his fingers have worked Hawkeye's pants open.

Hawkeye wonders what it says about them that every time Trapper's drunk, he takes advantage of Hawkeye, even when he's explicitly told no, or stop. But Hawkeye's dick likes the attention, and besides, Trapper isn't going to remember this in the morning. And maybe, as unwise as it is, Hawkeye really wants this, deep down. He's not _expressly_ unwilling, just knows what a bad idea it is to give into Trapper's baser impulses.

So he shrugs mentally and lets Trapper pull his pants down enough to unbutton his army issue underwear and expose his cock to the night air. Trapper touches it softly, with fingers gone hesitant instead of clumsy now, and his face is all angles of wonder and awe, like he can barely believe what he sees—or what he's doing. And it makes sense. In the daylight, when he's sober, this part of him is buried so deep Trapper himself hardly knows it's there. When did Trapper realize, and start shoving it down further and further, in the hopes it would never surface?

How old was he? Still a child, just _playing_ doctor, but maybe with other little boys? Was he a teenager, and couldn't keep his eyes off guy's asses on the football team, in those indecently tight shorts?

Who was it who made Trapper feel like this part of him was so totally not okay that he had to crush it into submission? His father? His teammates? Even himself?

"Trap," he says, even as Trapper's fist wraps around his flagging erection and tries to beat it back to life, "when did it happen?"

Trapper looks up, eyes confused, his face suddenly darkening from that beautiful awe he'd worn moments before. That look Hawkeye's seen on his face when Trapper's done something difficult in surgery, or, even, when he's watched Hawkeye do something in surgery that he finds incredible.

And Hawkeye regrets asking, even though it's clear from Trapper's furrowed brow that he doesn't know what Hawkeye's referring to. Hawkeye pushes himself into a sitting position, grabs Trap's wrist, and tugs his hand away, to his own detriment and great regret.

"When'd what happ'n?" he asks, reaching now with the other hand. He's suddenly an intelligent octopus—although that intelligence is a bit impaired by gin at the moment. "Heya. Hawk. Lemme—"

"No," Hawkeye says. "Go back to your bunk and lie down, and tell me about how you met your wife. Did you first see her in high school?"

Trapper frowns, but acquiesces, perhaps too easily for the level of his inebriation, but he lies back down moments later and yawns noisily.

"Nah," he says. "I firs' saw her on the sidelines at my college football game. She was from a visiting school, still in high school 'erself. But she was so pretty…" he trails off long enough that Hawkeye thinks he's fallen asleep, then resumes. "When she picked my school, well. I foun' all sortsa reasons to be in the hallways where she was, or in the campus mess when she ate lunch… ya know, Hawk, they call me Trapper now because o' Louise. They foun' us in a faculty closet, her skirt up, me bare-assed, and after that ev'ryone said I 'trapped' her. But she wanted ta be there. And then she was pregnant, so we got married." He stops. He rolls over. "G'night, Hawkeye," he says, as if that's really the end to the story.

And maybe it is. Maybe Trapper's marriage was the final nail in the homosexual coffin he'd been interring. Hawkeye buttons up his underwear, but he doesn't bother to retie his scrub pants. He just yanks the blanket over himself.

But despite the fact that it's a relatively quiet night, Hawkeye doesn't fall asleep right away. He can't stop thinking about how sad Trapper's voice sounded when he talked about getting married, or how sad the whole story is, in a way, and so he knows he should still be exhausted, but he can't put his brain down to bed.

Trapper snores the sawn logs of the truly drunk and worry-free across the Swamp, and Hawkeye can't do anything but listen, and feel morose.

++

After two weeks with barely any work, the wounded start pouring in steadily, and Frank gets into a fight with Trapper and refuses to share a table with him, so Henry sends Trapper to Hawkeye's table, where he does his best not to make eye contact or speak to Hawkeye. They're resecting a bowel, the kid on the table probably barely seventeen years old, and thus far all Trapper's said, in a monotone, is: "Retractor. 3-0 silk. Clamp. Hold that bleeder there, nurse."

He hasn't even flirted with the nurses in days. Margaret has noticed it; she pulled Hawkeye aside yesterday and said, _"He's hardly eating or sleeping and my nurses are going oddly unmolested of late. What's going on, Pierce?"_

He had shrugged, knowing the back of his neck was flushed red, and said nothing about that, changing the subject (sort of): _"And when will I have the pleasure of _you_ in my tent, Major?"_ to which she'd huffed, looked like she wanted to slap him, and stomped off. After all, the quickest way to deflect from uncharacteristic behavior—for both of them—was to proposition her or piss her off. And the fun part was that propositioning her did both.

But it's a hollow victory now, when he's performing surgery at the same table as his erstwhile lover, and he can't even have a conversation with him that doesn't involve the mention of bowels, blood, gauze, or stitches. Hawkeye sighs behind his mask; Henry, in an unusual bit of sensitivity, notices.

"What's up, Pierce?" he asks, finishing up his own patient and taking a step back, stripping off his bloody gloves, and getting ready for the next one. Klinger and another orderly set down a stretcher, but even as Henry turns to look at the x-rays, it's obvious he's expecting an answer.

Hawkeye gets lucky; Trapper looks up at the same moment he does and their eyes lock. Hawkeye narrows his, and Trapper rolls his in return, but he says,

"It's nothin', Henry. Just had a little trouble tying off this bleeder and I don' think this kid is even old enough to enlist."

"Plus we're all exhausted, Henry," Hawkeye adds. Look, it's almost like they're speaking to each other! And from the table behind them,

"Really, Colonel! Could we have quiet in here? These boo-boos wouldn't know exhaustion if it bit them in the a—I mean the rear end, sorry, Major," Frank says.

"No problem, Major," Margaret says, she of the only person with the patience to stand Frank.

"Can it, Frank, we're all tired, it's been thirty-seven hours without more than a coffee break, and frankly, on that note—Klinger! Bring the bedpan, I gotta piss!" Henry says wearily.

Trapper finishes closing, and steps away from the table. Hawkeye watches him covertly, loving the way the scrub shirt hugs his biceps, and berates himself for not allowing Trapper to complete the handjob he started the other day. And, as a new wounded soldier appears on their table, he begins to wonder about Trapper's childhood again. Has he ever done that before? Maybe given a covert handjob to a football player, or sneaked out behind the church for a smoke and some heavy petting with one of the baseball team's pitchers?

If Hawkeye had let things progress, would Trapper have known what he was doing? Would he have gotten Hawkeye off skillfully, or sloppily? Would it even have really mattered, when just having Trapper's breath and callused fingers near his cock made Hawkeye ready to spurt?

"Metzenbaum scissors," Trapper says, jerking Hawkeye back to the present, and the realization that he better stand a little bit closer to the table until the blood and guts and stench of wounded bodies makes his erection wither.

How does Trapper do it? Even faced with a dying kid on his table, Hawkeye's hard, and desperate, and fucking _angry_. He doesn't care if Trapper wants him. But he does care if Trapper's just playing around with him like a cat with a juicy mouse. He's not a toy, to be played with and discarded when broken.

And he feels broken, too; like he's already been used up and discarded, and the only reason Trapper keeps coming back is because alcohol makes him forget that he threw Hawkeye away.

"Can I buy you a drink later?" Hawkeye says, but not with his usual playfulness. No, this is caustic; it burns his throat and tongue on the way out, but what's worse is that Trapper doesn't even seem to notice; he just shakes his head.

"What are you, some kind of blue perv?" Frank snaps, and Margaret shushes him, but not before Trapper turns the color of his scrubs: bleached white with red spots. And Hawkeye knows he's losing him.

He hyper-focuses on the insides of the kid they're working on together, and tries to ignore the sad, worn feeling that wants to rise up and sweep him away, like bile after a drinking binge.

But it doesn't work. These days, being around Trapper is downright painful in a lot of respects, and nothing ever works to make Hawkeye feel better.

++

That night, after Trapper has his customary drinks, Hawkeye has one—such restraint now, only drinking a single martini—and turns in, facing the tent wall because to look at Trapper these days is to feel pain. And it isn't the kind of pain inflicted by Trapper on purpose; it's the kind of taut squeezing of his heart that says he wants to Trapper to come to terms with himself and his latent homosexuality.

Because as much as Hawkeye wants Trapper to fall in love with him—and ashamedly, he does—this pain isn't for _himself_, it's for Trapper, and the pain he must be feeling to be medicating with gin (and who knows what else) and yet he's all twisted up like an old used rag.

But as Hawkeye closes his eyes, preparing to sleep—or what accounts for sleep in a war zone—Trapper speaks into the soft darkness. It's all quiet for the moment, just the sound of Klinger's heels in the hard-packed dirt of the compound and the night insects singing, until Trapper's voice breaks through it, not as slurred as Hawkeye would have expected it to be. Maybe Trapper didn't drink as much as he thought; Trapper had been going down to the officer's club for starters and then coming back to the Swamp to swill gin—Hawkeye wants to tell Frank that _this_ is what swilling looks like—before passing out.

"She was sweet, like crisp apple pie and cinnamon," Trapper says dreamily. Wistfully, even. Hawkeye is afraid to speak a word, to break whatever spell Trapper's laboring under, so it takes him a minute to figure out that this must be a continuation of their previous conversation, and Trapper must be referring to his wife. "She tasted sweet, and she was demure, always wearin' white dresses and white gloves to church. She seemed so perfect." Trapper pauses. Hawkeye waits, on tenterhooks now; he's always wondered where Trapper's marriage must have gone wrong for him to chase nurses like he does now.

If Trapper even likes women, Hawkeye thinks, wondering. It's not unheard of—Hawkeye likes women, as well as men—but Trapper's an enigma.

He risks it: "What happened, Trap?"

"Well, nobody's perfect," Trapper replies, voice dipped in sadness. "But she tried. Nah, it was my fault. She got pregnant—I think I told you that—and she wouldn' let me near her for months. An' I got lonely, then I got bored, then I stepped out on her. An' she never complained. She never asked me where I went, where I was." Trapper pauses again. "It was one o' those nights, when I was out drinking and fucking, that I realized I didn' really love her. An' after I'd gotten her pregnant again, too. Those girls are my life, Hawk, but Louise? Nah."

"So why did you stay with her? Why come all the way to Korea and cheat on her with countless nurses? Apparently you were already doing that."

"I was drafted, Hawk. Ya know that. I didn' come here just so I could cheat. Nah. No, what it was, she stopped askin' for me. She'd kiss me hello when I got home from work, but she didn't initiate things with me anymore. And me, stupid me, was so caught up in my latest affair that I barely noticed. I came home one night and the girls were at Louise's mother's house for the night, and Louise was wearing that red dress she had on the first time I saw her. An' she said: 'I don't wanna know, John. Just remember me. Remember where you live.' An' I got it, boy did I fuckin' get it. She knew. She'd known for God knows how long, and she didn't care as long as I kept the part of my vows where we stayed married."

"Sounds like the perfect wife after all," Hawkeye can't help saying, and Trapper grunts into the darkness. Klinger's heels make another pass by the Swamp.

"Hawkeye, this is different," Trapper murmurs, sounding way too sober. Hawkeye tenses up. "This could ruin everything. Louise would never overlook _this_."

"You're thousands of miles from home," Hawkeye reminds him. "She's not going to find out."

"Oh, fuck, Hawk! It ain't about whether she _finds out_, it's about whether the army does and sends me home in disgrace with a blue checkmark by my name. Louise probably wouldn't even waste time being disgusted, just like she wouldn't waste any time contacting a lawyer and taking my girls away." Then so quietly, Hawkeye can barely hear him, Trapper continues. "_You'd_ be taking my girls away, and I couldn't live with that. I can't lose them, Hawkeye. I can't."

"This isn't about me," Hawkeye says. "This is about you being true to yourself."

"That ain't ever gonna happen," Trapper says, "because whatever you think you see in me, it's a lie."

Hawkeye sighs. "Just sleep it off, Trap," he says. Because he can't get through to him. He doesn't think anyone can, and even if he could, he can't fight the demons that whisper that Trapper will lose his daughters—because the truth is, he might. If the army—most likely in the guise of Frank—found out, it would be all over.

Trapper is very quiet in the other bunk, too quiet to be asleep; the kind of quiet that suggests tears being smothered. Hawkeye squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to feel the ache that burns and spreads through his chest.

But nothing eases it, and the pain follows him into sleep.

++

It's an accident, though Hawkeye doubts Trapper sees it that way, when they end up in the supply tent at the same time looking for things on nearby shelves. Trapper appears to be gathering supplies for surgery and the OR, while Hawkeye is replenishing things for post-op, but Trapper doesn't give him the dirty look Hawkeye's expecting when they lock eyes through a shelf.

It's mid-afternoon, but things are quiet in camp; it's hot out and most of the personnel are in their tents, trying to nap away the hottest hours, except for a few nurses in post-op and, of course, Hawkeye and Trapper.

So when Trapper suddenly dumps his pile of supplies on the floor and strides around the shelf, backing Hawkeye into a corner, against the wall, Hawkeye is expecting violence, not, well, what is an admittedly violent kiss. But nonetheless a kiss.

Hawkeye's clipboard jabs them both in the stomachs, and his armful of supplies is holding Trapper partially at bay, but the kiss, as surprising—and surprisingly sweet—as it is, causes him to drop them in confusion. At least until his brain and tongue register the harsh burn of alcohol in Trapper's mouth.

He's drunk? In the middle of the day? And Hawkeye didn't even see him drinking. He wants to push Trapper back, and away, and say something snarky about not being a supply that Trapper can just grab, but his mind is too fogged by the unexpected kiss to translate that into a proper joke, and instead he hears himself moan, the clipboard falling to his side.

Trapper's is as hard as anything, snug up against his own groin, and Hawkeye whimpers a little into Trapper's mouth, wanting it, that erection, the kisses, _everything_, but knowing he shouldn't have it, shouldn't—

Trapper's fingers claw at the side of Hawkeye's jaw as he ruts against Hawkeye shamelessly, grinding his cock into Hawkeye's belly, and Hawkeye forgets about being noble, or being the one with a chance in the hell that is Korea of rubbing two brains cells—as opposed to two stiff erections—together and making the right, and difficult, decision to extricate himself. Instead he swivels his hips, pressing back, making Trapper moan this time.

Trapper seems too drunk to care that Hawkeye's hard on is suddenly very tightly pressed to his, and Hawkeye groans as Trapper grunts with the effort of staying upright, presumably, as they frot each other like teenagers in a darkened movie theatre. Then Hawkeye slips his hand between them, finds Trapper with unerring focus, and begins to dip his hand into Trapper's scrub pants.

He's expecting Trapper to haul off and catch him in the jaw with something much more forceful than a kiss, not for Trapper to widen his stance, spreading his legs a little, and giving Hawkeye room to maneuver.

Hawkeye, brain now officially too swamped by hormones and lust to think clearly, takes advantage of this. He works the scrub pants open and pushes them down slightly in front to expose that huge, thick organ that he's spent so much time thinking about. Hell, sometimes he wonders if this whole thing isn't just some fever dream he's dreamt where he's not half in love with Trapper so much as just likes the sight, smell, and taste of his cock.

Alas, Hawkeye is too honest with himself not to admit that he'd have given up on Trapper as a bad job a long time ago if he wasn't half in love with him, though his cock is definitely one of the perks—the downside being the intransigent homophobia and violence towards his fellow man when spooked.

Still, Hawkeye wraps his fist around Trapper and tugs, eliciting a breathy groan, and causing precome to pearl up over the slit and start to slide down. Hawkeye rubs the precome between his fingers and uses it to start to jack Trapper, soft and slow at first, easygoing like. Trapper's hips make aborted pushes towards him on each upstroke, and Trapper's eyes are closed, his mouth hanging slightly open, breathing in pants as Hawkeye continues to work him over.

More precome swells up and beads and Hawkeye's fingers are coated in the stuff, and so is Trapper's monster-sized dick at this point. Hawkeye tightens his grip, trying to discover which way Trapper likes it best, and he must find it, because Trapper's mouth forms the shape of a name: _Louise_. Hawkeye is offended. He knows he shouldn't be; he also knows it kills his buzz. No wonder Trapper's eyes are closed: he's pretending he's with a woman, even as Hawkeye's erection bobs against his thigh.

Hawkeye knows that Trapper's current main nurse is named Louise, just like his wife—"She'll never know when I call out the wrong name," (said before Trapper really started avoiding him completely)—and so it makes sense, but it's still insulting. After all, it's as bad as if Trapper _were_ calling out for his wife, and Hawkeye decides then and there that he's done with all this. For good.

No way is he going to let Trapper use him this way. He pulls his hand back, swiping the precome off onto Trapper's scrubs, and pushes Trapper gently in the chest. Trapper's eyes have flown open at the loss of sensation, and he's gaping now, eyes wide, at Hawkeye.

"Why'd you stop?" he asks, and Hawkeye frowns.

"You should know why. Go back to the Swamp and sleep it off," Hawkeye says. He's about to say more—as Trapper quickly does up his pants—when they both hear voices outside. Nurse Kellye and Nurse Baker, and they sound like they're either huddling together having an update session, or about to enter.

Trapper whips away from Hawkeye so fast Hawkeye's head spins, then Trapper's got his armful of supplies and his own clipboard, and he's moving to the far corner of the tent.

He's not drunk enough to forget about the danger of being caught, then, Hawkeye thinks bitterly as he picks up his own things and makes his way to the door.

++

Hawkeye stays out late that night, drinking with Klinger in the officer's club, trying to give Trapper time to pass out before he seeks his own bed. He doesn't think he can deal with Trapper's recriminations and accusations right about now.

Everyone in camp has noticed the coolness that's sprung up between Captains McIntyre and Pierce, the vast chasm that Hawkeye doesn't think any bridge could ever be built across. He isn't the architect of bridges, and he's pretty sure expecting Trapper to be the one building something to bring them back together is stupid.

Hawkeye has never considered himself to be stupid, but he's stupid over Trapper, and he hates it.

Anyway, it's a surprise to everyone in the officer's club—though no one more than Hawkeye, who knows what caused the breach between them—when Trapper appears in the doorway, looking remarkably sober and looking _right at Hawkeye_.

After the way he fled the supply tent, Hawkeye can't believe Trapper would willingly show up looking for him. So it must be Klinger he's looking for?

"Hawkeye? Can I talk to ya?"

Well, that sounds ominous. Hawkeye swallows the last of his dry, drier, driest martini, the one that had tumbleweeds floating through the olive, and gets up. Slaps down some scrip for the drinks he's had, then nods to Klinger, who arches a bushy black eyebrow.

"Don't look at me," he says, "I'm just crazy. I don't know what's goin' on with _him_."

"See ya later, Klinger," Hawkeye says. "Probably on the way to the latrine while you're on guard duty." Klinger raises his glass in salute and Hawkeye meets up with Trapper at the door; Trapper turns, and Hawkeye follows him, watching the way his beautiful rounded ass moves in the moonlight as he walks.

They don't go back to the Swamp; "Frank's asleep in there," Trapper says as he leads them to behind the motor pool. "And this isn't a supply tent type of meeting," he adds as he gets comfortable sitting up against the wheel of a Jeep.

Hawkeye doesn't know what to do with himself; should he sit? Stand? What is least likely to make Trapper try to kill him for what happened earlier today?

"Jesus, Hawk, ya can fuckin' sit down, you're makin' me nervous," Trapper says, and Hawkeye doesn't think he realizes that they're still, even now, on the same wavelength sometimes.

He sits down on the ground, crossing his legs, and leans back against the back of the motor pool building, close enough to have a private conversation but far enough away to hopefully keep from crowding Trapper.

"All right, Trap, what do you want?" he asks after the silence becomes uncomfortably stretched.

Trapper fiddles with his dog tags and looks down at the dirty ground.

"Lookit this shit," he says, "fuckin' dirt is dirty in Korea. Everything here is a shithole."

"Are you drunk, Trapper?" Hawkeye asks carefully, even as Trapper yanks on his dog tags, like strangling himself to death with that symbol of the army will somehow make him feel better.

"No." He swipes a finger through the dirt. "I haven't touched a drop since this afternoon."

"Then explain this to me. What are we doing here? I thought we were teen girls giving each other the silent treatment." Hawkeye watches Trapper make a little mound of dirt, like he's making a sandcastle out of Korea. "Trap?"

"I make bad decisions when I'm drunk," Trapper finally says, looking up and, surprisingly, meeting Hawkeye's eyes. His eyes are too dark to make out the color, but they shine a little and Hawkeye wonders if he's crying. He remembers that time Trapper cried brokenly, and how he'd thought maybe Trapper had turned a corner.

Hawkeye'd thought maybe that breakdown, those tears, might have been a good start, the vehicle to understanding himself, but then Trapper turned around and acted like that had never happened. Even now, after weeks after aborted (and not so aborted) sexual encounters, Trapper hasn't admitted to himself what they both know: that he likes men.

Watching Trapper now, he wonders if maybe this is all just some sort of huge, dysfunctional defense mechanism? He's reminded of their very first "romantic" interlude in the supply tent, when Trapper had done everything short of actually raping Hawkeye. There had been some part of him that had known, back then, that Trapper was going to snap. He'd known from the first moment his huge cock breached him that Trapper was going to lose his cool, that things were going to break between them. He just hadn't known which way the breaking was going to go.

But now—and for the past weeks—Trapper's been seeking him out for sex, and _only_ for sex, but he seems to be doing his level best to pretend ignorance of his own motives. What does he think he's doing? Why does he think he does these things, if he's not a homosexual inside, where the only thing that matters is a person's own opinion?

Back then, he hadn't been surprised when Trapper took him in the supply tent, even though he can't be _sure_ Trapper would have stopped if Hawkeye had asked him to. Hawkeye hadn't, of course; he'd acquiesced, rather graciously he thought, to Trapper's "request" for full-on penetrative sex with him, and the only thing Hawkeye's gotten in return is more weeks of abuse.

And now Trapper's inscrutable, a book Hawkeye doesn't know how to read. He's suddenly aware that it's very quiet behind the motor pool, that Trapper hasn't said a word in minutes, and that Hawkeye's been staring at him. He hasn't been thinking about how hot Trapper is, or that he wants to fuck him, but Trapper can't know how far afield his thoughts have really wandered, so he wouldn't be surprised if Trapper's angry now.

Yet when he speaks, finally, his voice is soft. "You look so beautiful right now," he says, and the words surprise Hawkeye just as much as the tone of his voice does. Imagine expecting anger, vitriolic words, and to get sweetness instead. Such sweetness it makes Hawkeye feel as if his heart might shatter.

Then Trapper shatters the moment for them both, getting to his feet and standing, hands jammed in his pockets, impossible to tell where his gaze lies now, and goes on.

"But that, ah," he clears his throat, twice, "that doesn't change anything. I gotta stop doin' this. It ain't me, and it ain't right. I just wanted…" he clears his throat _again_, "I jus' wanted to say I was sorry to ya. A woman doesn' like to think she's just a receptacle for a man's lust, and I imagine ya don' wanna feel like I'm just usin' ya instead of some nurse, when I can have pretty much any nurse I want and—ah—I'm ramblin'. I'm headin' for some sack time. You can come back to the Swamp, I ain't gonna kill ya or nothin'. So. Now that that's said." And he whirls, a blur of army green, and stalks off, shoulders stiff around his ears like he can't believe he made that speech.

Hawkeye, for his part, can't take the apology in the spirit it's meant, because he's too busy fuming over the fact that, as far as Trapper's concerned, he might as well be a woman who's convenient. Trapper can't even admit that he's venting his base lust on another man: no, he has to classify Hawkeye as a woman as if he's _lesser_ somehow.

Margaret would kill him for thinking of women as lesser, even if he doesn't really believe that when it comes to _actual_ women, but Trapper didn't seem to be giving Hawkeye a compliment when he said that.

"A receptacle, huh?" he says, getting up to follow Trapper back to the Swamp. "How much you wanna bet his wife has said that to him at some point? Or one of his paramours." Hawkeye frowns. "And now I'm talking to myself. Great. That's just great, call Sidney, send me away to the asylum. I'm homosexual _and_ I'm crazy; I'll fit right in."

He sighs and trudges towards their shared living quarters. "And he thinks I'm afraid he's gonna kill me. I think a lot of things might kill me: mess tent food; mortar shells; sniper's bullets; gangrene… but up until now I didn't realize my death had 'Trapper' emblazoned on it."

He's speaking softly, but the camp is dim and quiet, the shelling momentarily in a lull, and Hawkeye decides he'd better shut up; Klinger's out here somewhere, and anyone else could be too.

And Trapper's right about one thing: he can't afford to be outed as a homosexual.

++

When Hawkeye wakes up, there's a folded note on his pillow: _motor pool 900 hours_. Hawkeye, wiping a trail of drying drool from his chin, grabs his watch and turns it: just before 900 hours. He has about eleven minutes to get to the motor pool—and only the fact that he knows Trapper's chicken scratch as well as his own tells him who the note's from.

After last night—after the last weeks—Hawkeye can't believe that Trapper would make an assignation with him, but that handwriting is distinctive. He rolls out of bed and combs his hair to the side, brushes his teeth quickly, and wipes his face with a towel in case there's any lingering drool, then dashes out of the tent. From behind him, a sleepy voice moans,

"Keep it down, you yahoo. Some of us worked hard last night."

"Oh, shut it, Frank," Hawkeye mutters, thinking about the fact that he got to bed late because, five minutes after he and Trapper laid down in their cots, the PA had come on and announced incoming wounded. Hawkeye and Trapper—and okay, Frank—had been up most of the night stitching and cutting and digging for shrapnel. He's pretty sure what woke him was the stab of sunlight into his tender, overused eyes as someone—and it had to be Trapper—left the Swamp.

He makes his way quickly through camp, trying not to think about the fact that he's still wearing the clothes he fell asleep in, and that they're the same clothes he wore all day yesterday. He feels grimy, even with his teeth and hair brushed; not at all his best. But what does it matter? Why does he care if he looks good, when Trapper doesn't want him?

_But he does want you_, his conscience murmurs. All right, so Trapper hasn't made up his mind which way he's going to go, yet, but Hawkeye still sees no reason to fret over his appearance for someone who hates getting close to him the way Trapper does.

He makes it to the motor pool just after 900 hours and finds Trapper there, looking just as rumpled, his curls a disaster, in an idling Jeep.

"Get in, Hawkeye," Trapper says. Hawkeye stares at him for a minute.

"Want me to drive?" He knows how much Trapper hates driving. But Trapper shakes his head in the negative, motioning to the seat beside him with his arm.

"Just get in, wouldya?" he asks.

"Where are we going?" Hawkeye asks, complying, sprawling into the seat, but still trying to keep his knee from touching Trapper's thigh—which is a tall order, with how long his legs are and how cramped these Jeeps are.

"Just someplace private so we can talk," Trapper says, but his tone of voice tells Hawkeye that's all he's going to say about it. Hawkeye frowns, but turns his head and watches the camp go by as Trapper drives out into the road. He watches the dry, scrubby brush of Korea whip past for awhile, wondering if they're going to get shelled on this trip—you never can tell.

Thinking of that, Hawkeye grabs a helmet from behind him, and plunks it on his head. He realizes with a start that Trapper's been planning this: Trapper is now wearing his own army-inscribed helmet and he left one in the Jeep for Hawkeye. Or at least, that's what Hawkeye assumes it was for.

"You're not driving me somewhere private to murder me, are you?" he asks, knowing he sounds nervous and trying to hide it. "Because of course surgeons are handy with a scalpel—"

"Shut up, Hawkeye," Trapper says, but is Hawkeye imagining things, or is some of the old playfulness, the old fondness, back in his tone?

"Just wondering," Hawkeye adds with forced casualness, continuing to stare at the countryside. Korea might be beautiful if it weren't so torn up by grenades and mortar shells. If it weren't crawling with guerillas, just waiting to get that perfect sniper shot. "Because if I'm going to die, I'd really like it to be at the hands of someone I know, I suppose, rather than a North Korean. Might even—"

"We're here," Trapper says, jerking the steering wheel and fishtailing the Jeep into a hard right next to a little Korean hut, which looks abandoned.

"Define 'here'," Hawkeye says, looking dubiously at the hut. "This is nowhere."

"I had a brief fling, totally innocent of course, with one of the daughters that used to live here. They're gone now—father was shot, and they had to leave to survive—but I just thought we could talk."

"Talk. Right." Hawkeye alights from the Jeep and strides into the hut, which is dusty and filled with little mounds of road dirt that hasn't been swept in a very long time, but there's still a pallet on the floor and a folded old blanket at the foot of said pallet. "I'm sure it was innocent," he adds under his breath, thinking of the fact that Trapper doesn't really like women as much as he thinks he does. He probably held her hand. He might have kissed her.

But Hawkeye believes him, and he doubts it went any further than that.

"Just sit down," Trapper says, pulling his medical bag and another bag out of the back of the Jeep. "I brought gin. We'll drink, and we'll talk."

Hawkeye wants to point out that maybe drinking isn't such a good idea for Trapper these days, but maybe Trapper needs to file the edge off before he can talk about whatever it is.

"Well, get pouring," Hawkeye says, feeling magnanimous as Trapper pulls the bottle from the bag. And then Hawkeye realizes that there are no glasses—why would there be? They'd probably get broken in transit. He clears his throat. "You know what, I'm good. You go ahead, though." Drinking from the same bottle isn't something they would have ever questioned, in the Before. But now it'd feel like an indirect kiss, and he can't be sure that Trapper won't think of that himself in a minute.

"Sure ya don't want any?" Trapper asks, but Hawkeye shakes his head.

"I can still feel my buzz from last night," he says, though he's lying, because while he heard Trapper drinking as he drifted off, he didn't indulge before he went to sleep—not last night. Er, this morning. Whenever.

Trapper tips the bottle back and Hawkeye has to look away from the column of his throat; it's too distracting and would make him too fucking hard to watch that sort of obscene thing. It's so stupid, that something so commonplace as swallowing could, when done by the right person, make him so hot under the collar.

In fact, Hawkeye stares at the wall, waiting for Trapper to speak, for what feels like eternity, and Hawkeye wonders if, in fact, Hell is not like being stuck in Korea after all, but being stuck in Korea with the one man he's ever wanted as badly as this but not being able to have him. And then Trapper clears his throat.

When Hawkeye looks back, the bottle is mostly empty and Trapper has apparently leaned towards the wall until his body bumped up against it and stayed there. Hawkeye wonders just how much Trapper drank before he fell asleep. And before he met Hawkeye at the motor pool. Just how drunk is his homophobic, former best friend?

"So's," Trapper mumbles, before raising his voice the way very drunk people do: they think they're whispering when they're shouting.

"Shh," Hawkeye says, glancing through the opening to the hut. "We don't want to attract any undesirable attention. Well, _you_ don't, anyway," he adds, but this he says more quietly. He doesn't particularly want to provoke Trapper. Especially… "You're not just going to leave me out here, are you?"

"No," Trapper slurs. "I wouldn' do that to my worst 'nemy. I just wanted to tell ya a story, about a boy who grew up wantin' to be a doct'r and whose parents wanted a good little priest." He laughs, unevenly. "I woulda made a terr'ble priest, ya know. I woulda flirted with all the b—girls." He stops and stares at Hawkeye, a horrified expression making itself at home on his face, and Hawkeye realizes that Trapper is drunk enough to remember at least some of the genesis of this wanting.

"The girls, right," Hawkeye prompts, because he wants to know where this story is going and it will go nowhere if Trapper forgets his point and focuses, instead, on that dirty secret he can't even admit to himself, never mind to anyone else.

"Well, anyway, I did good in school, but ya know that, I'm here, ain't I? Where was I…" he looks down at his fingers, wiggling them almost as if he's counting them. "Right. I was Cath'lic. I was a good Cath'lic boy, Hawke—Hawk." The stumble over his name is telling. The last part of it isn't exactly hard to say. Then Trapper looks down, digging his fingers into the hard-packed dirt floor and turning red, wincing as he says, "I hadta be drunk to tell ya this. I learned a boy didn' mastu—uh. Get off. Didn' sleep with girls he wasn't married to. But then one day, under the bleachers…" Trapper stalls out for so long Hawkeye has no idea if he even remembers why they're there. "A kid whacked me off," he whispers. "After he did that, I found Louise. An' I got into her pants as fast as I could, and I got her down the aisle just as fast. And I haven' thought about that day until recently. With you."

So. The truth at last, Hawkeye thinks. A Catholic teenager tempted into sin in the worst possible way, and he's never been able to forgive himself.

"Trap—"

"I gotta… fuck. I dunno. I never felt so guilty. Couldn' be a priest anyway after that." Trapper leans a little more to the side, face still turned away from Hawkeye. Fuck, he's drunker than Hawkeye thought.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Hawkeye says, and suddenly Trapper's looking at him, blinking widely, as if waking up.

"What're we doin' back at this place, Soon-yi?" Trapper asks, then pauses, squinting. "Hawkeye? You got black hair like a Korean girl."

"I'm not a girl," Hawkeye says, a bit tetchy about it. Much like last night, when Trapper implied he was a woman as if that were lesser, he's annoyed that Trapper seems to insist on emasculating him. Because while it's true it would be different, and that they wouldn't be doing something illegal, Hawkeye doesn't think he should have to pretend just so Trapper can get his rocks off without guilt.

"Don' I know it," Trapper says, slurring worse. "It'd be a lot easier if ya were."

He knows what Trapper says is true. It would be easier. But in some ways it wouldn't be half as much fun.

"C'mon, Don Juan," Hawkeye says, getting up, grabbing the bags, and then hefting Trapper under his arm. "You need to sleep it off."

"Yesh," Trapper says, then lists into Hawkeye hard enough to make him stumble. Just before he unloads Trapper into the back of the Jeep, Trapper rears up and throws his arms around Hawkeye's neck, pulling them close together.

And there, in sight of God and any lurking North Koreans, he kisses Hawkeye sloppily, a homosexual gesture right out in the open, and though all Hawkeye hears is birds, he quickly disengages himself and shoves Trapper down.

"We're going back to camp," Hawkeye says, forcing himself not to wipe his mouth because that would be conspicuous. And within ten feet, Trapper is passed out in the back, snoring heavily and loose-limbed as only the drunk—and recently dead—are.

Hawkeye drives quickly, wondering what to make of this new information. What does it mean, that Trapper confessed to this?

And is Hawkeye just going to get frozen out again when he wakes up?

++

"I need you two to go to Seoul for a conference," Henry says the next morning, when Trapper is bleary-eyed and hungover, and Hawkeye is trying not to stare at his feet too obviously. "I hope you've worked things out by now?"

"Yeah, sure," Hawkeye says, kicking Trapper's boot behind Henry's desk, jarring him into agreeing. He looks a little green when he does it, though.

"Radar! The pa—"

"The passes, sir," Radar says, sidling into the office. "The weather is supposed to be nice this afternoon, too."

"This afternoon?" Trapper asks, wincing as Radar slams the doors on his way out. "Isn't that—"

"Yes, McIntyre, I know it's short notice, but the conference had been planned, yet we were expecting casualties. Now the wounded are heading off to the 8063rd—it's closer to the hill they were fighting over—and I can afford to spare you. You should be back in two days. And let me tell you, Burns is pissed I'm not sending him."

"Henry, why aren't you sending Frank?" Trapper asks, rubbing his forehead. Hawkeye wonders if he has an ulterior motive for asking; surely he wouldn't rather be paired with _Frank_ of all people?

"Because—well, I just thought you'd rather be together," Henry says, obviously flustered. "Besides, Frank isn't the best of my surgeons. I need you two to learn a new procedure, and I think we all know that isn't one of Frank's strengths."

"The only strength Frank has is the strength of is his malpractice," Hawkeye says, and he hears an actual _giggle_ escape Trapper, who promptly clutches his head.

"And, McIntyre," Henry says, "you need to cut back on the boozing. I need you sharp, and I've noticed you've been dipping the wick pretty deep these days."

"Now you're acting like an actual CO?" Hawkeye asks, because Trapper has one eye squeezed shut and he thinks he's about to hurl. "You sure you aren't as drunk as he is, Henry?" Hawkeye says, nodding towards Trapper, who's given up on standing and has plopped down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Pierce, can the funny attitude. Just pack your bags, would you?"

++

In Seoul, the conference passes in a blur of served drinks and beautiful women serving them, and Hawkeye, though he listens attentively to the lecture, has some of his attention split for Trapper: his best friend is listing in his seat, eyes half-closed, a drink almost falling from his hand as he watches the women.

Hawkeye wonders what Trapper is thinking. Is he contemplating how pretty their breasts are? He thinks it unlikely. So when Trapper stares at those women, is he trying to force it?

"Trap," he says in an undertone, "what's so intoxicating about the Korean girls?" Although Hawkeye thinks Trapper is more intoxicated by the liquor being served, he can't resist the play on words.

"They have such shiny hair," Trapper says slowly. Hawkeye blinks, watching Trapper watch the Korean girls for a minute. Then the room fills with applause, and Hawkeye realizes the lecture is over.

"C'mon, Trap, time to go back to our room." The conference was well attended, and the hotel that Henry booked for them had only a room with two beds, not two separate rooms; Hawkeye thinks that after sharing the Swamp in the compound, it shouldn't matter, but to Trapper… it probably does.

"You have such shiny hair. Like they do," says Trapper. He leans easily against Hawkeye and closes his eyes.

"No, Trap, you can't go to sleep down here. Even if I would, of course, make a wonderful pillow. C'mon, let's hit the sack. But in a bed, yeah?" He hauls Trapper to his feet even as one of the Korean girls comes over and looks him up and down, then gives him a pretty, albeit kind of blank, smile.

"GI Joe want some help? I send him to his room and go to yours?" she asks, dimpling prettily. Hawkeye groans under his breath. The last thing he needs right now is to wrangle some girl, no matter how pretty—or whether he'd like to.

And the problem is, these days the only person he wants to wrangle is Trapper.

"No, thank you. I'm sorry. He needs to sleep it off and we're sharing a room," Hawkeye tells her. She winks at him.

"GI Joe very handsome. He sleep, you come, yes? He not even notice! Sure he like the drinks I bring him, yes?" With this smile, slightly more calculating, Hawkeye tries to remember if any of the other girls served Trapper as well, or if he's been set up by a pretty but sneaky Korean girl who wants in his pants. He's flattered, really. It's gratifying. But Trapper's deadweight in his arms, his eyes half-lidded, completely unaware of the attempted seduction taking place only steps away from him.

"This GI Joe really just needs to sleep too. Have a nice night," Hawkeye says, hoping the brush-off will stick. The girl pouts, but she squeezes around him to go, and on her way past, she squeezes something else, too. Hawkeye has to hold in the undignified girly shriek he wants to let out as he starts to half-drag Trapper from the conference room in the hotel.

++

Hawkeye had thought that, the minute Trapper was in the vicinity of a bed, he'd pass out, the liquor making him heavy, slow, and unmoored. But instead, as soon as the door closes, Trapper throws an arm heavily over his shoulder and maneuvers himself into a position in front of Hawkeye, their bodies pressed together all down the front, and Trapper's arms hanging like lead weights around his neck.

"C'mon, Trap, not now. You gotta get to bed, okay?" Hawkeye tries to walk them towards the bed with Trapper's duffle at the foot of it, but Trapper doesn't help at all, and soaked in booze he's heavy and difficult to move. Trapper gives him a sloppy smile, then follows it up with a sloppy kiss. He moves his lips—flavored of alcohol—over Hawkeye's, and when Hawkeye opens his mouth to push him back with clever words, Trapper slips his tongue inside.

His hand runs down Hawkeye's side, from his ribs to his hip, then around his back, where he grabs a handful of Hawkeye's ass and gropes him thoroughly even as he kisses him more deeply. Hawkeye has to hand it to him: he's a deft kisser, even when so drunk Hawkeye's pretty sure Trapper's eyes are crossing. Not that they don't both have a lot of experience with being that drunk, especially together.

"Trap," he says, turning his head, "I didn't know you were an intelligent octopus. Move you—I _need_ that—hey!" he adds, when Trapper cups his dick in his palm and begins to apply pressure.

"Hawk," Trapper mumbles, going for his mouth again. "Jus' wanna… _need_ ya, Hawk." He rubs his own huge erection against Hawkeye, but the effect is slightly spoiled by the fact that his hand is still in the way and he's basically rutting against his own hand, as opposed to Hawkeye's erection.

Which yes, if you must know, he's hard and aching despite his misgivings. He walks forward, and Trapper, apparently thinking he knows where this is going, lets himself be guided backward. They reach Trapper's bed, and Hawkeye, perhaps more roughly than necessary, dumps Trapper backwards onto it and then jumps back, even though Trap, who tries feebly to get up, doesn't have the coordination.

"Stay down, Trapper," Hawkeye says. "Sleep it off. If you're talking to me in the morning, we'll discuss this then." He quickly ducks into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and uses the toilet, then pulls off his army shirt, the one that buttons down that he was wearing over his t-shirt, and when he goes back into the room proper, Trapper is lying on his back, in the same position Hawkeye left him, mouth open and snoring loudly.

Hawkeye gets into his own bed, but finds himself watching Trapper for a long time in the spill of moonlight coming through the window. He doesn't catch any sleep for hours.

++

_Hey, Trap:_

_ I've gone to get coffee. I'm pretty sure you're gonna need it when you wake up. Listen, when we get back to camp, this has to stop. You can't afford to be hungover like this—like you will be this morning—with wounded soldiers depending on you._

_ As for the other, it applies there, too. You can't expect what you've been expecting while drunk anymore. You need to make a decision, Trap. To stop hiding. To ask for what you want when you're sober._

_ And until you do, you're not going to get it. I have one word for you: Lysistrata. I'm pretty sure you shouldn't have to look up that reference._

_ I'll bring you coffee too. There's water and medicine on the nightstand. Drink plenty of water, even though I don't know why I'm telling you that, since you're a doctor too._

_\--Hawkeye_

++

It turns out Trapper isn't speaking to him, after all, though Hawkeye thinks that has something to do with the beastly hangover Trapper has.

"So, on my way to tuck you in," Hawkeye is saying in the chopper on the way back, "like a good little child, this bounteous Korean girl propositions me. She tells me that you can sleep in the other bed while she gets me off. And then she grabs my ass on her way by, once I've told her no." Hawkeye glances at Trapper, but he's staring out into the sky, eyes bloodshot, skin faintly waxy and grey. "You listening? Eh, Trap?"

Trapper nods, but he doesn't say anything.

"Well, anyway, I went to bed with a pink alien who'd turned into a seafoam stain on my pillow this morning," Hawkeye says, "and she was awfully good around certain appendages, but she smelled like the sea." Hawkeye waits, but Trapper continues to stare glassily into space. "And then I cut off your dick and sold it for sushi," Hawkeye adds triumphantly, sure that this will get a reaction. But Trapper is a million miles away, maybe thinking about his wife and the yawning distance between them. Maybe he wishes he could go back in time and still pretend he loves her. He's stonily silent, even though usually he would have laughed and continued the joke, and Hawkeye doesn't know if it's him, or if Trapper's just that sick this morning.

He doesn't think Henry is going to be happy about it.

++

It surprises Hawkeye, but for a whole week, Trapper doesn't touch a drop of alcohol. He doesn't try to fuck Hawkeye—they barely speak—but he doesn't drink, and Hawkeye can't think of any reason why he would give up the daily gin if he didn't read and absorb Hawkeye's letter. The letter was gone when Hawkeye got back to the hotel room that day, probably torn to little pieces and flushed down the toilet, but Trapper must have read it.

Because he also hasn't tried to get into Hawkeye's pants. Literally _or_ figuratively.

Then one night, a Saturday, Hawkeye comes back to the Swamp after a shower to find Trapper sitting on the edge of his bunk, his head in his hands. The door bangs shut and Hawkeye notices the tent is empty, Frank nowhere to be seen.

He's about to ask Trapper where Frank is—anything to hear Trapper's voice addressing him, instead of speaking _through_ him like he does in the OR—when Trapper shifts a little on the bed, lifting his head.

"Couldya come and sit down?" he asks, and Hawkeye, shocked that Trapper's acknowledging his existence, drops down onto the edge of his own cot.

"What—does Henry suddenly think I'm into dresses too, like Klinger?" Hawkeye asks, worried all at once. What if Trapper's finally had enough? What if that posture of dejection was because he turned Hawkeye in? "Am I gonna get a blue heart, instead of a purple one, and a free trip home?"

"What? No!" Trapper bursts out, clearly not feigning surprise. "I just thought we should talk."

"Have you been drinking tonight?"Hawkeye asks, trying to sniff the air inconspicuously. It smells like old socks, old farts, and gin, but none of that's new; he can't tell from the ambience and he's reminded it's never a good idea to breathe the Swamp in—it reeks, filled with swamp gases, as it were.

"No," Trapper says. "But I've been cravin' it. No, I just thought… well, maybe it doesn't have to be like this. Henry hasn' made any attempt to find me new quarters, and…"

"Is this about the conference in Seoul?" Hawkeye asks. "Something in particular on your mind?"

"It's just that, we've been so close ever since we got here. And… I know it's my fault, Hawk, but I miss your friendship. It's not like I can get Frank to help me prank himself, ya know?" Trapper scrubs his hand down over his face. "Is it too late, do ya think, Hawk? To be friends again?"

"Not if it's what you want," Hawkeye says carefully. "But is that _all_ you want?"

Trapper flushes, and Hawkeye knows the answer to his question, just like he knows what Trapper's going to say.

"Ya know that other shit is just lettin' off steam, Hawkeye. Please don't bring up past mistakes."

_Mistakes. Yeah, right, but that's how he thinks of me now? What kind of friendship can we even have when he thinks fucking me is a mistake—and he's done it as many times as he has?_

"Well, it was definitely steamy," Hawkeye says, though. What's the point of pushing him? Trapper's so far into the closet he's probably found Narnia. (A British soldier had left a copy of the book behind and Hawkeye, bored, had read it cover to cover one night while in post-op. He'd found the idea of a magical land inside your closet to be funny, considering how he felt in there sometimes.)

"Maybe for you," Trapper snaps, then softens a bit. "I'm sorry. I don' wanna get into another argument already. Can we just agree to be friends?"

"Yeah, sure," Hawkeye says, twisting and flopping backwards onto his cot. "Friends. I never stopped being your friend, Trapper."

It's a long time before he gets a response, and he's almost asleep when he hears, possibly not meant to be overheard,

"You should have."

++

Hawkeye wakes in the middle of the night to warm lips on his—his immediate thought is, _oh, a nurse_—until the stubble on the person's chin registers. His second thought is to wonder whether that enlisted man he'd been fucking has sneaked into his tent, until he hears, a low throbbing note in his voice,

"Oh, Hawk."

That's _Trapper's_ voice—and he smells like sweat and dust and antiseptic, but not like liquor, which confuses Hawkeye. He opens his eyes onto darkness, and when he responds to the kiss, Trapper goes utterly still. Hawkeye, quickly catching onto the fact that maybe Trapper is experimenting when he thinks it's "safe," lets his mouth fall further open and turns his head a little, faking sleep.

After a moment, the warm lips are gone, and, receding into the darkness, he hears,

"Oh, thank God. Listen, Lord, if you just break this out of me, I'll be faithful to my wife. Even over here."

Hawkeye isn't Catholic, but he's been around Father Mulcahy enough to have picked up a few things, and he knows that bargaining with God doesn't work. That, and he's pretty sure Trapper can't keep that promise.

++

It's poker night, and Sidney has come to the 4077th for the customary game, but now that they've played until 3am, everyone has left except Trapper and Hawkeye—because they live in the current poker accommodations—and Sidney, yawning and scraping his chips off the table.

"You mind if I crash here until my Jeep gets here?" Sidney asks, shuffling the cards and neatening the pile.

"No more rounds," Trapper says, putting his head down on the table. "I lost my whole paycheck tonight."

"It's because you never know when to fold," Hawkeye says, "and you're terrible at poker."

"Well, I think ya cheat, Hawk," Trapper says, muffled by his forearm. "Ya got most of my scrip for the month."

"You know I'll let you borrow money, Trap." He turns to Sidney, who has his chin on his hand and is watching them with exhausted curiosity.

"You two seem different somehow," Sidney remarks, and Hawkeye can see Trapper go as still as he feels. It's probably a terrible idea but—

"Sidney, if I told you that we had a soldier who admitted he had a thought or two about… men… like most men usually have about women, would you commit him?" Hawkeye asks. Trapper is suddenly so statue-like and silent Hawkeye wants to check for a pulse, but even though this is a gamble—ha, gambling on poker night—he's _really_ pretty sure Sidney is too progressive to lock anyone up for homosexuality. And in some ways Hawkeye doesn't understand how Trapper could have treated that homosexual soldier, stood up for him in Frank's face, and still be so horrendous about finding out Hawkeye's secret, but then… maybe it wasn't all acting on his part, when he was supposed to be pretending to be on Frank's side.

"I'd say that's more unusual but not abnormal," Sidney says. "Why? Did it bother you to treat a homosexual?"

"N-no," Hawkeye says, "not exactly."

"Homosexuality, no matter what current psychiatry and the U.S. Army says, is not a mental illness. It's just a queering of the norm. And either you are or you aren't." Sidney stands up and stretches. "Does that answer your question?"

Trapper is very quiet, lying on the table. His breathing isn't slow enough for him to be asleep, though. He's just listening—very closely—to every word.

"Take the extra cot, Sidney," Hawkeye says. "Reveille will wake you when it's time to go. Trust me, in this camp, it's so badly played no one could sleep through it. C'mon, Trap," he says, hauling on Trapper's bicep. "Time for your beauty rest, not that you need it." That joke is probably queering the norm, too, but Hawkeye can't resist. Trapper stumbles to his feet and allows himself to be led to his cot.

"You know," Sidney says contemplatively from the extra cot, "I didn't see Trapper take a single drink of gin tonight. Is he sick?"

"No," Hawkeye says. "He promised his wife to cut back a little."

But as Hawkeye listens to the Swamp settle into the snores of his sleeping bunkmates, he understands that now he's compared _himself_ to a woman. Or to Trapper's wife, at least.

++

When Hawkeye swims towards consciousness the next morning, he can hear Trapper speaking, presumably to Sidney, judging from the content of his hushed conversation.

"It really ain't a sickness? But it's a sin—"

Maybe he's actually speaking to Father Mulcahy? Hawkeye knows he should sit up, let them know he's awake, not eavesdrop; but eavesdropping is too shamefully tempting to pass up, so he just settles more fully into his uncomfortable cot, trying to keep his breathing slow and measured. After a moment, Hawkeye realizes there's nothing to listen to. What is happening? Just when he's ready to pop out of his army issue blanket, Trapper mutters something, just too low for Hawkeye to hear. Then, louder,

"I just can' believe it. No matter what Hawkeye says. Or what Sidney says."

So definitely not Sidney, then.

"I think if it would make my mother cry, it ain't something I oughta do." There's a pause, but no other speaker, and Hawkeye suddenly knows that Trapper—poor guy—doesn't trust this conversation to _anyone_; he's having it with himself. "But on the other hand, I've done plenty that _did_ make her cry. No. I can' be like this. It doesn' matter what Sidney says—"

The door bangs open and shut.

"Hello, Frank," Trapper says, with his usual trace of smarm towards Frank.

"Oh, that's a fine thing to say," Frank snaps. Hawkeye chooses that moment to emerge from his blanket. Frank is dressed down already, his sleeveless t-shirt sweaty, probably from calisthenics in this godawful heat. Hawkeye wishes for a pool of cold water to jump in.

"Good morning, Frank," Hawkeye says, and catches the quick glance Trapper throws his way. It's partly flushed and partly panicked. "Damn, did I oversleep? Trap?"

"Some of us actually _work_ instead of saying nasty things," Frank says.

"It's just gone dawn," Trapper says. "Reveille hasn't happened yet, but Sidney woke me when he left." He sounds evasive, but then the sound of Radar on the bugle—awful as usual—comes over the loudspeaker.

"I'm getting some sleep," Frank says, adding a high-pitched giggle. "Unlike some people!"

"I think we should glue his shoelaces to the floor," Hawkeye says, a peace offering. Trapper sputters a laugh and says,

"Or glue his ears closed."

That's just mean, but Hawkeye thinks he can understand why Trapper would want Frank deafened.

"Come on," says Hawkeye, "let's go to breakfast."

"Are we skipping muster?" asks Trapper, and Hawkeye winks. He shakes his hair out of his face and walks to the door, holding it open for Trapper. Trap doesn't flinch away from him when he passes by; if anything his ribcage brushes against Hawkeye's chest and he shivers. Hawkeye wonders at the fleeting contact—it lasts for a perhaps a split second longer than necessary, though he can't be sure.

"Want me to get us trays and meet you someplace private?" Hawkeye asks, even though he knows it's risky. "As friends. Of course."

"I don't know, Hawk," Trapper says, standing and blinking in the sunlight slanting down.

"You—" Hawkeye pauses, considering what he's about to say, then decides just to let it go, and hope for the best. "You just looked like you wanted to talk."

"I ain't been drinkin', Hawk," Trapper says. "And I ain't… _that_... stupid sober. Just so ya know."

Hawkeye thinks maybe Trapper is still hiding from himself, but then, why is he surprised?

"Mess tent, then?"

"I need the latrine," Trapper says, "and then, yeah."

Hawkeye watches him walk away, and wonders.

++

Hawkeye starts to make his way to the mess tent, but realizes he's nauseous, and makes an abrupt turn towards the latrine. He doesn't remember drinking last night, but he feels vaguely hungover, with the press of the sun into his eyeballs making his stomach throb.

He ducks into the latrine, expecting to see Trapper there taking a piss, but the other side of the latrine is empty. He leans against the side, grateful for the walls interrupting the sunlight, and puts a hand across his eyes.

He's still deciding whether the smell of the mess tent—somehow worse than the smell of the latrine—is going to make him puke, when the door opens and Trapper slips inside—Hawkeye can recognize his scent blindfolded, apparently, and it's really saying something considering all the army issue soap and such that everyone in camp shares. Hawkeye removes his arm from across his eyes. Trapper's wearing fresh clothes, as if he showered before coming here, and Hawkeye wonders if it's because of that barest brush of contact as they left the Swamp together.

"Well, don't you look fresh as a daisy," Hawkeye says. "Use up your allotment of hot water for the week?"

"There's no rationing this week," Trapper says, sounding confused. His hair is dry, though. Hawkeye starts to wonder what he was doing before he came to the place that, from what he said, made it out like he was heading there first.

"Where were you?" Hawkeye asks, still a bit nauseated. "I think I'm skipping breakfast—I got all the symptoms of food poisoning just from the smell of it."

"I, uh—" Trapper stumbles to a verbal halt, staring at Hawkeye as if trapped. "I thought ya might—and I—"

"Were you _avoiding_ me?" Hawkeye sucks in a deep breath, which he regrets when the smell of the camp breakfast combines with the contents of the latrines. "I thought you wanted to be friends again?"

"Look, Hawk, you can be a… lot… to take. And uh, it never bothered me before, I s'pose, but things _are_ different now, and—" He rubs his face. "To tell the truth," he says so softly Hawkeye has to lean in to hear, "it's just hard to be around ya." He swiftly turns away, but not before Hawkeye sees the flush burned into his cheeks.

"I know my ravishing good looks and superior sense of humor make me irresistible, but—"

"Give it a _rest_, Hawk," Trapper says wearily. "I can't take it anymore." He turns to go, and Hawkeye, in what might be a huge mistake, decides to lay all his cards on the table. After all, it's important to know when you're beaten.

"I know you can't." His voice is low and urgent, for Trapper's ears only. "I was awake, Trap. You don't need to promise God anything. And I know—"

"What do you know?" Trapper cries, whirling around, fists clenched. Hawkeye expects them to start flying in rage again, to watch Trapper use his sobriety as an excuse for a regression into the original violence he dished out when he first caught Hawkeye in a compromising position. "You don't know anything!"

"When's the last time you had a drink?" Hawkeye asks, watching as Trapper, with obvious effort, unclenches his fists. "In the last week? Longer?"

"You _know_ when, Hawkeye."

"Was it just before you kissed me? When you thought I was asleep? I must be Sleeping Beauty because you woke me with a kiss."

"No!" Trapper shouts, then grinds to a complete stop. "You… knew about that?"

"Trap, it's okay—"

"This will _never_ be okay! I can't afford to feel this way, Hawkeye. Find someone else for… for… this. Please leave me…" his voice drops to near silence "...alone." Then he flees the latrine, and Hawkeye has to stop, to throw up, but whether it's the hangover or the result of that conversation, he doesn't know; he can't extricate the tangled threads of the disparate causes of his nausea anymore.

When he steps out of the latrine, Trapper is nowhere to be seen.

"Will he ever even realize that every time he tells me to take a step back, to leave him be, it's after he made the overtures to _me_?" Hawkeye murmurs, as he heads for the Swamp to get his robe and shower things. He feels greasy and unkempt and he just wants to brush his teeth.

++

Corporal Martin corners Hawkeye in the supply tent later. He puts one hand on the wall by Hawkeye's head and tilts his, giving him a secretive, lustful smile.

"Hey, Captain, I'm a ship looking for a friendly port," he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Hawkeye can't help it; he laughs. Martin always was cute _and_ funny, and if it weren't for Trapper, Hawkeye might have caught feelings for him a long time ago.

"You're in the army, not the navy," Hawkeye says, "and I'm not in mood to be the 'port.'"

"Shit, this is the army? Oh my God, I thought I was a small town sailor!" Then Martin leans in really close, his breath scented faintly of mint. It's suddenly clear that he's been planning this little encounter. Hawkeye wants to push him back, to tell him he's gotten the wrong idea—he hasn't tried to get Martin alone since he started this strange seesaw with Trapper—but honestly? Trapper's hopeless, and Hawkeye's horny. He's been desperate for some action since Trapper's spent the last bit turning him on and then running away.

After all, no one likes a tease, and Trapper's definitely been one of those; Hawkeye makes a decision—knowing it's probably a bad one—and lets Martin kiss him. His lips aren't as soft as Trapper's, and his mouth is a little wider, his teeth straighter, and the differences start to pile up in Hawkeye's mind—

"Wait, stop," he says, putting a hand out, against Martin's chest. "I think this is a bad idea, Corporal."

"You're tellin' me this now?" Martin leans in and bites gently at his jaw. "You know you want it." He reaches down and cups Hawkeye, who's a bit hard, enough to get Martin to raise an eyebrow and smile. "Your dick says otherwise than your mouth. Wanna put that mouth with those pretty red lips to a better use?"

That semi is probably from thinking of Trapper more than any kiss from Martin, Hawkeye knows.

"Hey, now," Hawkeye says, trying to inch back; all he gets is the wall plastered to his back. "I outrank you."

"There's no ranks in relationships," Martin says, tightening his hand. "Give in, Hawkeye."

Hawkeye's just beginning to panic a little, thinking that he can't get his point across, when Trapper walks in. He sees them together, Corporal Martin's hand still on his groin, and his eyebrows draw together, anger flashing across his face.

"I'm gonna need this," he says, staring at Hawkeye. "I got a beautiful nurse waitin' on me."

Hawkeye shoves the corporal off, and Martin, looking at Trapper's face, is suddenly and quickly making himself scarce. The door bangs closed, and it's just Hawkeye and Trapper, alone together, staring each other down. Trapper looks like he's planning to win a glaring contest.

"Look—"

"What's goin' on?" Trapper says, voice low and furious. "You wanna get discharged? You wanna get fucked that bad you're willin' to get fucked by the Army?"

"Trap, I was trying to get rid of him—" Hawkeye starts.

"Didn' look like it ta me. Looked like ya had exactly what ya wanted. So I guess anyone will do, eh? Make it out like I'm so damn special. Like ya want me so bad I should just give in? Or—"

"Just shut the fuck up, Trapper," Hawkeye says wearily. "You cannot seriously be telling me that you're _jealous_. You won't do anything, and I've tried to be patient, but—"

"Oh, I don't fucking _think_ so," Trapper snaps. "Ya can't coax homosexuality that _doesn't exist_ out of a person. Don' give me some shit about being _patient_, like you're some kind of _saint_—"

"Trapper? You're a fucking hypocrite. You are jealous, and possessive, and I don't belong to you. I could, you know? I love you. I've tried not to admit to that, but shit, who the fuck cares anymore. You can just hear the truth and take it—"

Trapper is suddenly inches away, close, so close, and Hawkeye's expecting a fist to the mouth, something to shut him up, to grind the words away against his teeth. But instead, Trapper slams his lips down over Hawkeye's. It's just as shocking as a punch.

They kiss, just for a second, Trapper's mouth hard and punishing, and then he jerks back. He stares at Hawkeye like's he just been shot, or like he's heard an unexploded bomb land and he's waiting for it to go off.

Hawkeye narrows his eyes.

"I'm not a whore," he says, "I'm not a toy, and I'm not a female-adjacent substitute. I'm tired of your shit. Get fucked, Trapper John McIntyre, and—"

"Stop," he says. He's staring at Hawkeye like Hawkeye's been mortally wounded. "Just stop. It's all a mistake. All of it."

Before Hawkeye can make sense of this, try to understand what he means, Trapper's whirled away from him, his hand on the door.

"Wait!" he cries, suddenly seeing his future, the two of them estranged again, and regretting his anger. "I'm sorry, Trap, I won't push you anymore—"

"Good. Don't." Trapper shoves at the door, but then he looks back and something flickers in his eyes. "I wish I could be the man ya want, Hawk, but I can't."

And then he's gone.

But Hawkeye thinks they both know he's lying to himself—and Hawkeye.

++

It takes some time for Hawkeye to calm down, but when he does, his brain snags on the last thing Trapper said to him before he stormed out of the supply tent: _I wish I could be the man ya want, Hawk, but I can't_. Trapper may not even realize what he said, not really, but Hawkeye puzzles over it and thinks, _he said he wishes he could be_.

Before he can think better of it, he's writing a letter. It's risky to do in camp, but he knows Trapper can read between the lines.

_T—_

_ If you really wanted to be the man I wanted, you could be. It might mean giving up your shields, might mean admitting uncomfortable—maybe even downright terrifying—truths, but you could do it._

_ I won't push you anymore, like I said. But I think you can find yourself, if you just follow your heart._

_ I believe in you. I think you've forgotten how, and someone needs to._

_ —H_

He folds it into fourths and tucks it beneath Trapper's pillow. If anyone snoops, it will just look like a note from a nurse, so Hawkeye's not that worried about committing the words to paper. He doesn't know if Trapper will blow a gasket over something like this, but he doesn't quite have the energy to care anymore. After all, Trapper keeps running hot and cold, and Hawkeye's exhausted by it. His feelings are complex and possibly unrequited, but possibly not.

Later, when he's in the tent where they keep soldier's effects, Father Mulcahy has lifted down a box that Hawkeye needs and then, with a smile, gone off to listen to a confession, and suddenly the door opens.

"Oh, Father, I'm almost done—"

"Why would ya do it?" Trapper says, his voice low and throbbing. "Why can't ya just leave it alone?"

Hawkeye carefully sets down the worn book in his hands, placing it back in the box, and turns just as slowly to face what he's beginning to think of as his nemesis: Trapper's homophobia.

"Because of what you said," he says, trying to read the expression on Trapper's face. "You said you wished you _could be_. Don't you see?"

Trapper steps closer, invading his personal space. "It doesn' matter, Hawk. The point is I can't, not whether I—" he stops dead. His eyes go comically wide.

"What?" Hawkeye thinks this could be something significant, maybe a change in Trapper's worldview, and so he does what he said he wouldn't and he interferes, he prompts him.

Trapper gets so quiet Hawkeye has to practically read his lips.

"Whether I want ya or not, I can't be that person. Please, for the love of God, Hawk, just leave it _alone_."

"You were jealous," Hawkeye says, not a question. "And you kissed me. It felt like you'd punched me, but right in the feelings."

"I have no right to be jealous," Trapper says, which is not an answer to the not-question Hawkeye didn't ask. "I felt it too." He lowers his face, and his cheeks glow red.

"But you _were_ jealous. Trap, look, if you're not going to try, I'm going to look elsewhere. I won't give up on this part of me just because you have."

Trapper reaches into the box of effects and pulls out a little stone. Maybe the soldier in question found it after a close call and thought it lucky, Hawkeye doesn't know, but he knows how easily the smallest objects become talismans over here, where death and mortal danger lurk at all times. He looks at Trapper: this is _his_ talisman, the inconvenient lump of feelings lodged just beneath his heart.

"You've had a revolving door of sexual partners since you got to Korea, Trap. So have I. Do you really expect me to change for anything less than a full commitment?" He covers Trapper's hand, folding the stone in between their palms. He can feel Trapper's heartbeat throbbing in his hand, and it sets up an equal and reactive throbbing in his solar plexus.

Trapper looks up, and just like that, Hawkeye feels punched in the gut again. Trapper's eyes are overfull with tears welling, even though not a single one has fallen.

"I _am_ jealous," he admits in a near-silent gasp. "Hawk—"

Someone, probably Father Mulcahy, rattles the doorknob. They can hear his voice outside, speaking to someone in words they can't understand through the muffling effect of the door, and before it opens, Hawkeye reaches up and swipes the tears away with his thumb.

"Give me the stone," Hawkeye says, and Trapper relinquishes it into his hand. He drops it back into the box. "It'll be all right."

The door opens, and Trapper gives Hawkeye an anguished look before he smooths his features into what is, honestly, a suspicious sort of blankness.

"Oh, Trapper! Did you need something too?" Father Mulcahy asks brightly.

"Oh no, Father, no. Just came to give Hawkeye some information on one of his patients. I'll see ya later, Hawk," he says, and shoulders past the chaplain.

"He looks troubled," Father Mulcahy says, glancing after Trapper. "He's Catholic, I know. I wonder why he never comes to talk to me about what's bothering him?"

Hawkeye knows why, but he obviously can't say anything about it, so he just shrugs.

"I don't know, Father," he says, and wonders if lying to a priest is less of a sin if you don't actually believe. Or would it be worse, because the good Father does believe and he would know that Hawkeye is an unbeliever?

He shoves those thoughts out of his mind and gives Father Mulcahy a smile.

"I'm all done here," he says, even though he can't even remember what he was looking for. Father Mulcahy smiles and waves him away, and Hawkeye walks out squinting into the sunshine, his eyes tracking through the compound, seeking out Trapper without even thinking about it.

He tries not to register his disappointment when he doesn't find him.

++

"I wanna go on R&R with Hawkeye," Trapper says, and even Henry looks surprised.

"You sure? I can write passes for you both, but last time…" Henry stands up just as Radar busts through the door. He's holding a sheaf of papers, and he pauses only for a moment to say,

"Hi, Hawkeye, sir, Trapper, sir." Then he slaps the papers down on Henry's desk. "Two passes to Tokyo for the weekend," he says.

"Someday I'm going to catch you, figure out just how you do it," Henry says, scribbling his signature on the passes. "Okay, so you get one day for sure, but we might be expecting wounded, so if that happens, I'll have to send for you. Make sure you're available."

"Wait, Hawk," Trapper says, even as Hawkeye fidgets and tries not to think about going on R&R with Trapper again. They don't have the best track record lately, and he wasn't expecting Trapper to volunteer to come along. He'd expected Trap to ask for his own days. "Wounded? Did ya know about that?"

"First I've heard of it," Hawkeye says, somewhat untruthfully. He had heard the faintest rumor that the Allied forces were trying to retake some hill or another, but he wasn't sure which one, when, or whether it would inundate the 4077th with wounded.

"I shouldn't even send y'all on a weekend," Henry says, "but—"

"No choppers today, sir, and not tomorrow," Radar says. "The offensive hasn't begun yet."

"Someday you have to tell me how you find out military secrets," Henry says.

"Oh, I'll tell you later, sir," Radar says. "Since that's all, I'll go call for the chopper for the captains, sir."

"Yeah, call for a chopper, Radar," Henry says, covering his face for a moment as Radar leaves. He meets Hawkeye's and Trapper's eyes in turn. "Well, for whatever reason that you two are getting along again, great. Keep it that way. Go pack. And remember: no geisha houses or too much trouble when I might have to recall you."

"Got it," Hawkeye says. He grabs Trapper's sleeve and tugs, turning him away from Henry. Trapper's eyes are slightly glassy, as if he's in some kind of stupor—maybe he is. Maybe it's the fact that he asked to go on R&R with Hawkeye again even knowing what had happened in the past.

They walk to the Swamp in silence, but Trapper starts joking with him as they're packing, and then they're both laughing as they throw Hawaiian shirts into their duffles. At one point Frank comes in and says,

"You two daffy doodles get so much rest time, it's really not fair. The rest of us work hard, you know."

"Of course, Frank," Trapper says, and he and Hawkeye both guffaw, and it feels so damn good.

++

"First drink," Trapper says, as they lie on their respective beds and stare at the ceiling.

"Thirteen. Rum and coke," Hawkeye replies. They already know each other so well, but they're playing the game anyway because it seems like the only thing to do in this situation. Hawkeye wants to suggest a geisha house anyway, even though Henry directly said not to, but instead he's on an actual comfortable bed, in a fairly comfortable atmosphere with Trapper.

He can't remember how long it's been since they felt like this: just friends, with nothing simmering angrily under the surface. He's really surprised that Trapper isn't freaking out.

"First sports game," Hawkeye says, and Trapper laughs.

"That I was in or I attended?" he asks, and Hawkeye pretends to think about it for a minute.

"Both," he replies, turning his head to let Trapper see the wicked glint in his eye.

"Well, Red Sox when I was six," Trapper says. "And I played tag football as early as first grade." He meets Hawkeye's gaze for a second, then looks away. "First kiss." Then he holds up his hand, waving it in a way to tell Hawkeye to hold on. "When you first knew," he asks instead.

"Trap—"

"No, you're right. First kiss. With a-a boy." Silence descends like a mortal shell landing between them. Hawkeye can't believe his ears. Trapper really had the guts to ask him that? Is it because they both promised not to lie before they started this?

"Uh, Trap, listen—"

"Just say it," Trapper says, urgently. "I really do wanna know."

"O-okay," Hawkeye says, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It's scratchy against his palm. "Well, he's gone now, so I guess it's okay to tell you. But you can't tell anyone."

"I won't," Trapper says earnestly, and he really does sound like the best friend he was a few months ago, the man Hawkeye could tell anything to, the man who would keep his secrets. And the thing is, even though he reacted awfully to Hawkeye's initial indiscretion, he never breathed a word of it to anyone, not even in anger. Maybe some part of him was always Hawkeye's friend, his friend all along, even when Trapper thought he wasn't. Because he's been protecting Hawkeye even as he's abused him.

"It was Tommy," Hawkeye says finally. "When I was twelve. Boy, that was some fucking summer. I had a hard on all the damn time, and it got worse whenever Tommy was around. He kissed me, actually, and by the time we'd turned fourteen, we'd done a lot of experimenting. But then he discovered girls. I discovered them, too, to a certain degree, but I missed Tommy. That's how I knew. Right around my fourteenth birthday, I figured out I was different."

"No wonder—"

"That I was so devastated by his death?" Hawkeye interrupts.

"And that ya were so glad to see him," Trapper says. "Hawkeye, come here."

He glances over, and Trapper's shifted to sitting on the edge of his bed. "What for?"

"Jus' c'mere?"

Hawkeye rolls, flows to his feet, and crosses the scant space between them. When he's directly in front of Trapper, Trapper grabs his face gently and pulls him in close.

"I want to kiss you," he says. "I need to… to try somethin'."

"Did you nip into the gin before we left?" Hawkeye asks, unable to believe Trapper could mean this while sober.

"No. I need ta know what it is. If I can do this." Trapper holds Hawkeye's startled gaze. "I don' know if I can take the guilt, Hawk. But I also can' take the… the fucking _need_. It's like an itch I can' scratch. Please. Kiss me."

Hawkeye reaches for him, carefully brushes those hazel eyes closed. Then he leans in, touches their lips together so gently, oh-so-gently. He finds the seam of his lips and licks at it, and waits for Trapper's recoil, his shove to the chest, his condemnations.

It doesn't come. Trapper's mouth slips open a fraction, and Hawkeye takes a deep breath against his lips, girding himself to make the plunge. Then he lets his tongue tiptoe into Trapper's mouth, ever-so-tentative, hesitant to take things too far, when Trapper's hand curls against the back of his skull, yanking him closer, and then he's devouring Hawkeye's mouth.

It's intense, like when Trapper is in surgery and working hard enough to sweat through his cap, and it's serious, like when the patient starts bleeding someplace unexpected, and it's both hurried and slow in the same instant. Trapper isn't holding back. He's kissing Hawkeye as if Hawkeye is one of his patients that needs mouth-to-mouth to survive. And Hawkeye's heart is raging in his chest, like it's going to batter itself to a stop from the rough feel of Trapper's stubble, the silk of his lips, the slick of his tongue.

And then it stops, and Trapper's eyes are open when Hawkeye opens his own. The look in those hazel eyes is desperate, strained, and slightly panicked.

"It's okay," Hawkeye says, his heart still flying behind his ribcage. He thinks that, when the punch comes, it won't even hurt; he'll just remember this as the best kiss of his life.

"It hurts," Trapper says in a broken voice, and Hawkeye sits back.

"I know it does," he says, and Trapper shakes his head.

"How can ya know?" he asks, his heart in his eyes and his tone soft and lost. Hawkeye stands up.

"Go splash some cold water on your face, and we'll talk," Hawkeye says. Maybe this isn't the end.

"Okay," he says, and when he's in the bathroom, Hawkeye closes his eyes again.

This might be the worst idea he's ever had.

++

But when Trapper comes back, the edges of his hair are damp and he looks determined. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are glittering. Hawkeye's first impression is that it's anger, that Trapper, given two minutes to think, regrets everything bitterly, but then he drops to his knees on the floor next to Hawkeye and clutches at his shirt.

"I need to do it again," he says urgently. "I've thought it over and that wasn't enough."

"Are you sure you're sober?" Hawkeye asks, dubious. "This isn't like you."

"Or it's exactly like me and we're just figuring it out," Trapper says. He sounds like a completely different person than he's been the last few months. Both more accepting and—freer.

"What happened in the bathroom?" Hawkeye asks suspiciously. "Did you hit your head?"

Trapper shakes his head impatiently, water droplets flying off the ends of his curls, and presses close to Hawkeye.

"We're away from everyone," he whispers, "and there's no one to see." For a moment his eyes darken. "Don't make me question it, Hawk." He melds their lips together, and the kiss goes from singular to making out in about 12.2 seconds.

Hawkeye closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, and loses himself in the sensations. He's kissing Trapper John McIntyre, and his best friend doesn't seem to be regretting and denying everything right now.

It could be minutes or days—the peace treaty might have been signed while they're in Tokyo—but suddenly they surface, and Trapper's hands are cradling Hawkeye's face. The kisses had been hungry but ever so slightly angry and Hawkeye doesn't know what Trapper might say, if he's going to denounce them again, so his next words surprise the hell out of Hawkeye.

"Hawk, I need to fuck ya, now," he says, breath rasping. "I can' stand it. I been wantin' this for months, but I couldn' do it, and—"

"Trap, stop," Hawkeye says, turning his face to break out of Trapper's hold; it's uncomfortably intimate, and it makes Hawkeye long for things he's not going to get. He knows that this is temporary. There's no way Trapper made an about face like that this quickly. He's halfway to a 360, Hawkeye's sure of it. "You know why you couldn't do it."

"You're gonna stop me? Now? I thought this was what ya wanted?" Trapper says, gripping Hawkeye's chin and twisting him back to face him. "Don' stop me, Hawk. I'm desperate here."

"Well, okay, but I don't have anything to use as lubricant…" Hawkeye says uncertainly. "And I'm not sure this is a good idea. You'll resent me for it later."

"Or maybe I won't," Trapper says, staring into his eyes. His look is open and honest and hungry, and Hawkeye wants _so badly_ to believe in what Trap is peddling, this new side of him, but he doubts it's going to last.

Still, he did basically promise that Trapper could have him if he were sober, and Trapper doesn't smell like alcohol. He hasn't for a couple of weeks now—Hawkeye thinks he may have quit cold turkey, even.

"And you're sure this is what you want?" Hawkeye asks, because he can't believe it, and because he wants to make certain—to give Trapper every last way to back out of it before he does something he might have cause to regret later.

Hawkeye believes that Trapper likes men, that he's a homosexual like Hawkeye himself, but Trapper's been so good at lying to himself that Hawkeye's still kind of afraid of what might happen next. Is it possible for Trapper to fuck him sober and not lose his mind over it later?

And is he really going to let himself find out?

"Hawk, you ain't listenin'. I gotta—please. I don' know if I can do this again. But here, it's just us, ya know?" He kisses Hawkeye quickly, as if to convince him. "I know I want it right now, but tomorrow? Isn't this what ya wanted?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Now you're gonna turn me away? When ya been beggin' for me all this time?" Trapper is clutching at his shirt, like he's afraid Hawkeye might be a figment of his imagination that could disappear if he lets go.

"Okay, okay," Hawkeye says. "But I'll have to go buy stuff to use. Okay? Will you be all right on your own?"

"I'm a grown man, Hawk," Trapper says, eyebrows registering confusion.

"I meant," Hawkeye says, clearing his throat, "will you change your mind while I'm gone?"

"I dunno, Hawk, so fuckin' hurry, all right? I'm hard and achin' and I gotta get inside ya."

"All right. I'll be back as quick as I can," Hawkeye says, but even then, there's a long moment where Trapper can't quite seem to let him go.

++

Hawkeye buys surgical jelly because actual lubricant used for sex seems like it would be too suspicious, and besides, they're going back to camp after this weekend, and Hawkeye wants to have something with him that he at least _might_ be able to explain.

He unlocks the hotel room door, peeks inside, and discovers all the lights have been turned out. He's not sure if he took too long and Trapper got tired of waiting, maybe decided to take a nap, but then he hears the shower running and sighs in relief.

Maybe if Trap's in the shower it's because he hasn't changed his mind. The whole time that Hawkeye was out, he was getting more and more excited by the idea of a proper fuck, of both of them sober, and finally getting what they both want. Trapper's been saying, for months, that it's what _Hawkeye's_ wanted, what he's been begging Trapper for; but what Trapper doesn't seem to realize is that even when Hawkeye reached for what he wanted, and was bitten by it—like a snake striking—and then withdrew, Trapper kept coming after him. Kept attacking, in a weird sort of way.

Hawkeye wonders what position Trapper played in football all of a sudden; if it was an offensive position. He pushes the bathroom door open a crack.

"Trap, I'm back," he says. "You know, if you still want to—"

"I'll be right out!" Trapper calls over the pounding of the spray. The water shuts off and Trapper walks back into the main room stark naked. There's some sunlight shining through the curtains, which means it's not totally dark, and Hawkeye finds himself surprised anew. Trapper hasn't been comfortable naked around him since before he found out about Hawkeye's predilections.

"You ready for this?" Hawkeye asks, setting the pharmacy bag down on the nightstand. He reaches for the hem of his shirt, to tug it up and off, and then pauses. Trapper may be standing in the middle of the room, skin sheened with a faint sweat of water, blond curls dripping, but Hawkeye can't look away. The water traces down Trapper's cheeks, his chest, and Hawkeye swallows convulsively.

"I'm ready," Trapper says, and without consciously intending to, Hawkeye's eyes skip down his body, following trails of water to where his impressive cock is stiff to his belly.

"Yes, I can see that you are," Hawkeye says glibly. Trapper gives him an abashed smile.

"Couldn' stop thinkin' bout ya," he says. "Took the shower to try'n help, but as ya can see, it did nothin'."

"You took a cold shower and you _still_ look like that?" Hawkeye asks, impressed. Trapper shrugs, which sends droplets of water cascading in little curls down his pecs, which makes Hawkeye's mouth water.

"You stallin', Hawk?" Trap asks, and looks pointedly at his army t-shirt, his army fatigues, his boots.

"You wanna do the honors?" Hawkeye asks, hands still paused on the hem of his shirt. "I could—"

"Sit down on the bed," Trapper orders, and Hawkeye raises an eyebrow.

"You can't give me orders, we're the same rank," Hawkeye points out. Trapper stares at him for a moment, eyes hooded with either lust or determination, Hawkeye can't tell which.

"Ya sure about that?" he asks. "Or do you wanna do what I tell ya?"

Hawkeye sits down on the bed, yanking his shirt over his head. He feels a slight stab of self-consciousness, which is surely stupid, and yet it grows when Trapper kneels on one knee to start removing Hawkeye's boots.

His belt comes next, unbuckled, pulled through the loops, and tossed aside; then his zipper's tugged down and Trapper's jerked off Hawkeye's pants. But that's when he stops, his face going somewhat pale. In the dim light, Hawkeye can't decipher his expression, but he guesses that, sober, Trapper's not quite prepared for the sight of another man's dick, no matter how small and non-threatening it is.

Though it probably does look somewhat threatening to Trapper right now, since Hawkeye's hard as a bullet, unfired and therefore dangerous.

"It's all right," Hawkeye says, because right now he can afford to be understanding. "Get the surgical jelly; I'll take care of the rest of my clothes." Trapper nods a little jerkily, rising to his feet, and as soon as his back is turned, Hawkeye unbuttons his underwear and kicks out of them.

Nude, he sprawls on the bed, on his back, then wonders—will it scare Trapper away? He considers asking, but then worries at his thumbnail, and rolls over onto his belly. He sticks his ass in the air, because he knows at least this way, his cock isn't quite so literally staring Trapper in the face.

"I got it," Trapper says, and Hawkeye feels a shiver go through him. Are they really gonna do this? He's honestly gonna give Trapper the chance to hurt him again?

"A couple ground rules," Hawkeye says, as the mattress dips beneath Trapper's knee as he climbs onto the bed. "You don't get to fake anything. If you need to stop, we'll stop. But don't pretend that you don't know who you're fucking. I have feelings, Trap, and the last time we did this was depressing."

"I don' really recall, Hawk, but you got my apology anyway. I'm sorry, okay?"

"And you have to actually touch me. I'm not doing this so you can have your jollies and then I have to get myself off. We clear?" Hawkeye waits, but even though Trapper says,

"Yeah, I got it," there are no fingers at his hole, stretching him. "Hawk, I-I can't. Get you ready. C-can you do that part? Please?"

Hawkeye sighs, but baby steps, right? "Hand me the jar," he says, and Trapper puts the cool little glass jar in his palm. "Remember this," he says, even though he's not sure it's knowledge Trapper will ever want to use again. "I definitely need prep for the size of the weapon in your arsenal."

"My wife complains about it a lot," Trapper says sheepishly. "Is it painful for you too?"

"Well, as you know, Trap, this area expands and stretches a lot more. But it will hurt if not done properly, yes." Hawkeye reaches behind him, fingers slicked with surgical jelly, and quickly inserts two. He can hear Trapper's breath catch, just like his fingers catch slightly on the rim of his hole before they pop inside, and he feels a sort of satisfaction, a justification; Trapper is enjoying watching Hawkeye prepare himself.

"You like what you see?" Hawkeye can't resist asking, and though he's hoping for a verbal affirmation, he doesn't get one, just Trapper's huge palm covering one ass cheek.

And then he spreads Hawkeye open, so he can get a better view, and precome immediately dribbles from Hawkeye's cock onto the sheets. Hawkeye always used to consider this part pleasurable, but also just a means to an end, and now suddenly he's feeling almost overwhelmed—like Trapper's eyes on him while he does this might even make him come, even though it's much too soon for that.

Suddenly, Trapper grabs Hawkeye's wrist and wrenches his hand away; stifling a squawk at the unexpected removal of his fingers, Hawkeye isn't prepared—emotionally, at least—for Trapper to lean over his back and jam his cock inside.

"Trapper!" Hawkeye says, almost an undignified shriek. "Wait!"

But Trapper seems to be deaf to his protests, because he keeps burying all the inches of his cock into Hawkeye. It's a burning stretch at first, then Trapper's deep, deep within his body, and Hawkeye can feel his body adjusting to the impaling he's just been given.

And then Trapper moves just a little, and everything falls into place, Hawkeye moaning at the sensations evinced in his flesh. Hawkeye is all at once overcome by the feelings swamping him: besides the obvious and immutable lust, there's a tinge of fear, but also an overwhelming tang of delight, joy. Because Trapper is sober. Trapper is on top of him, bearing down with all his strength, fucking Hawkeye hard and fast and tears are squeezing out of the corners of his eyes because Trapper isn't _angry_.

Hawkeye doesn't even know how, or why, he can tell the difference, just that he can. That each solid stroke with his cock is done with pleasure—even with some intent towards _Hawkeye's_ pleasure. This becomes even more clear when Trapper reaches around his scrawny hips and wraps his fingers around Hawkeye's cock.

Hawkeye moans unintelligible words, feeling his mind fall away into a teeming ocean of sensation, and he surrenders to it as his dick throbs in time with his heartbeat, in time with the pulse in Trapper's cock where it's buried deep within him, and now Trapper is stroking him in time with his thrusts. Hawkeye's cock is dripping a constant stream of precome, and Trapper doesn't even seem disgusted; his hand firms even more around Hawkeye, and he slides the slick up and over the crown of his dick, rubbing the fluid into his skin as he picks up the pace with his hips.

"Oh, God," Trapper gasps out suddenly, and his hips judder unevenly, then go still; his stomach against Hawkeye's spine goes taut and his hand squeezes Hawkeye's cock too tightly as Hawkeye feels the flood of come spurting into his passage.

He's coming back to himself, the edge of pain bringing his brain back to awareness, and he's perfectly ready for Trapper to yank his hand away in disgust, to leave Hawkeye unsatisfied—only he doesn't.

He loosens his hand a little, muttering an apology, and then continues to jack Hawkeye, more and more swiftly, maneuvering the precome around his small length until Hawkeye feels his balls drawing up, tight and hard. Hawkeye thinks he probably knows what to do from learning to masturbate as a teenager.

"Trap—" he manages to get through his constricted throat, before his head drops down between his shoulders and he comes, hard, all over the bed. Then Trapper is pulling free of him, lowering himself to the bed next to Hawkeye, on his side, facing Hawkeye, but with his eyes closed. "You okay?" Hawkeye asks after a minute of unbearable—at least to him—silence.

"I'm just gonna go to sleep," Trapper says after a moment. "If ya don't mind?"

"Ah, I, uh, don't, I guess," Hawkeye says, climbing off the bed on shaky legs. "I'm going to shower. And you might want to switch beds, or pull the comforter off," he suggests, hinting at the wet spot he left behind. Trapper barely moves, but he does shove the comforter down to the foot of the bed. Hawkeye walks into the bathroom, pausing to take a piss, and then turns the shower on.

He washes up quickly, trying not to get his hair too wet, and by the time he comes out, Trapper's rolled onto his side to face the wall, snoring lightly. Hawkeye listens for a moment, but Trapper does seem to be genuinely asleep, so he pulls his clothes back on and takes the other bed, lying facing away from Trapper, wondering what happens now.

Will Trapper pretend like this never happened? Hawkeye isn't even sure he has an _idea_ what to expect this time. Trapper drunk and raving? Trapper silent and withdrawn?

Maybe Trapper leaving him in the hotel room, going back to camp, telling everyone Hawkeye went AWOL? Or maybe—

But then Hawkeye's asleep.

++

Hawkeye is dreaming, the sound of the ocean rushing in his ears, when he slowly comes awake to realize that Trapper's in the shower. A quick glance at his watch puts paid to the idea that it's the middle of the night; it's barely ten minutes after Hawkeye laid down. In fact, he's been asleep for such a short time, he's not even sure he _was_ dreaming.

And then his insecure thoughts creep in again: He'd been certain that Trapper was asleep, but as soon as he drifted off, Trapper ran off to take a shower. Why? Simply because sex is messy, or because he's trying to scrub away homosexual sex the way women try to scrub away rape?

Hawkeye knows that this was consensual, that he didn't force Trapper into anything; he knows that Trapper got off, that he didn't shy away from touching Hawkeye's cock, which is something he's never done while sober before: touch Hawkeye willingly. He can remember Trapper trying to undo his scrub pants and get his hands inside when wasted on liquor, but never before has Trapper actually done _this_.

He hears the shower stop, and immediately relaxes into the bed, trying to regulate his breathing so Trapper won't know he woke up. If he's waiting for Trapper to talk to himself on his way back to bed—it's gone late evening—that doesn't happen.

But there's a whisper of disturbed air by his head, and Hawkeye doesn't know if it's just an air current from Trapper walking by—or something else. Something more deliberate.

He wants to reach up and brush his hair back, but he doesn't dare; after a bit of Trapper making the usual sorts of going-to-sleep noises, all is quiet, and despite himself, Hawkeye drifts back into sleep.

++

The phone jangling loudly into the pre-dawn day wakes Hawkeye. He's struggling for consciousness when he hears Trapper pick it up. He tries to focus on the words, but the next thing he knows, Trapper is shaking him by the shoulder.

"Hawk," he whispers intensely into his ear. Makes sense he's being quiet; it's still so early Hawkeye doesn't even hear any birds. "C'mon, ya gotta get up. That was Henry; they're expectin' wounded fairly soon, maybe a deluge, and he needs us back in camp. ASAP. You dressed?"

"I'm dressed," Hawkeye mumbles, nearly rolling off the bed. It's so comfortable his eyes won't even open. But then Trapper's dragging him to his feet, and Hawkeye is leaning unevenly against his solid frame.

"Ya gotta wake up now, Hawk," Trapper says. "Plane's gonna be here at sunup, which is real soon. Okay?"

"Is there coffee?" Hawkeye asks, yawning and winching his eyes open. Trapper looks beautiful with the sun rising across his face, his hair tousled and his eyes awfully green.

"I don' think we have time for coffee, Hawk. C'mon."

Hawkeye doesn't know how Trapper's managing to be upright, much less so awake, but he pulls away from his solid strength with effort and begins to grab up his things. In a quiet rush, they get everything together, and then they're practically running down the hall.

Hawkeye might never know if Trapper was going to bring up last night, because Henry interrupted their R&R and now that they've left the room, of course they can't talk about it.

They just barely make the plane, and the sun finishes rising out the plane window as they sit, side by side, awkwardly in silence. Trapper doesn't look at Hawkeye; he just stares at the brightly lit, pink and gold clouds, but when Hawkeye adjusts his body in his seat and their thighs brush up against one another, Trapper doesn't jerk away as if burned.

Hawkeye drifts back to sleep thinking about that.

++

Back in camp, Frank's screaming inside Margaret's tent, and everyone in the compound is walking around with their heads down, pretending not to hear. Hawkeye and Trapper exchange grins; it sounds like Frank is losing whatever little bit of his mind he had left, and when, as they step together towards the Swamp, Frank comes stomping out of Margaret's tent, Hawkeye can't help but feel in perfect charity with Trapper—unlike Frank and Margaret, apparently.

They hear a Jeep go tearing out of camp a few minutes after they settle down to a drink in the Swamp, and then there's a knock on the door.

"Come in, beautiful ladies only," Trapper calls, but he winks at Hawkeye, who laughs, even as he questions why Trapper would say such a thing after that experience they shared on R&R together.

Margaret comes in, in a towering fury, her cheeks flushed a becoming pink against the backdrop of her blond hair.

"That weaselly little fink!" she says, glaring at Trapper as if he's personally and mortally offended her. "I can't _believe_ him, telling me what his wife likes in _bed_ of all things, and then…" she catches herself, looking at Hawkeye and Trapper in turn. "Well, anyway, do you know he just drove out of camp without a pass?"

"This is too good to be true—" Trapper begins, when Margaret glares at him again.

"That's not why I came in here! I don't want you to get him into trouble… I was hoping… well, Radar loves you guys. Maybe you could finagle a signed pass out for Frank?"

"Margaret, I don't think that's going to work," Hawkeye says, "unless you know where he went." She flinches. "I kind of didn't think so."

"Well, please don't tell anyone? I'm sure he'll be back soon." When they nod, she nods back, like she's not sure what else she's supposed to do, and then she bangs back out of the Swamp.

"Poker?" Hawkeye asks, and Trapper agrees. They play, and then they sleep for a few hours, and by the time night rolls around, Frank isn't back and it's gone dark outside the tent.

"Hawkeye, pull the tent flaps down," Trapper says. Hawkeye gives Trapper a questioning look, but does it; it sounds like Trapper wants to get up to shenanigans, but they don't really have time, do they? Frank's been gone for hours, which means he could come back at any time, but Trapper looks so devilish and beautiful that Hawkeye can't resist. 

Hawkeye throws the latch on the door, and then when Trapper pulls Hawkeye by the hand over to his cot, and begins to work his olive drab fatigues down over his hips, he doesn't tell Trapper to stop. He doesn't think his lips remember how to shape the word stop, never mind getting it out through his constricted throat.

Before he knows it, he's naked, shivering a little in the cooling air—autumn is coming—and Trapper, who is apparently in a hurry, barely takes the time to remove any clothing; he strips off his shirt, but then he pushes Hawkeye back onto the cot, and comes down over him still wearing his own fatigues. He unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants and when he pulls his cock out, he's impressively, hugely hard, and he's pressing Hawkeye's spine into the saggy middle of the cot.

"Trap, the—" but the surgical jelly falls onto his chest, and Hawkeye's about to stretch himself, but then he stops. Trapper can't expect him to do this forever. "No, Trap. I think it's time you learned how to do this. Your turn to do the honors."

"But, Hawk…" Trapper's face is a little pale in the splinters of moonlight escaping into the tent, and he freezes, staring down into Hawkeye's eyes.

"It's not that hard," Hawkeye says, but as the words fall from his lips, he glances down, and adds, "well, okay, _that_ is."

"Hawk!" Trap says, but now he's laughing. Apparently distracted by Hawkeye's terrible punning ability, he spreads surgical jelly over his fingers. When he leans up and peers down at Hawkeye, who opens his legs as wide as he can, Hawkeye realizes just how _big_ Trapper's _fingers_ are, too. He wonders if he's going to regret this, as Trapper swallows visibly and jams a finger inside.

"Wait!" Hawkeye yelps, "be careful! This is the prelude, it's supposed to _keep_ it from hurting; it's not supposed to hurt!"

Trapper stalls, his finger half-swallowed by Hawkeye's hole, his eyes wide. "Did I hurt you? Oh, God, I'm sorry, Hawk—"

"Ah, it's okay, just be… Do it gently. Okay?" Hawkeye says, squirming around the intrusion. Maybe he should have done this for himself after all. But then Trapper's finger begins to move incrementally, gently now, and Hawkeye feels the sharp-bright pain fade to the light burn that accompanies a good stretching.

Trapper does this for about three seconds and then pulls back, reaching between them for his cock. Hawkeye gulps—he's not ready yet, not really—and stretching his arm beneath him, he manages to pull his hole wider open so that, when Trapper shoves inside, it isn't as much of a jarring shock as it could be.

And then, it's a race. Frank could do something unexpected, or people could walk by and hear masculine grunts and not think it's just a doctor and a nurse; that would be a disaster, so wordlessly, they both hurry; Hawkeye straining up towards Trapper each time Trapper bears down and lights him up from within with his powerful strokes.

Hawkeye feels like he's a burning beacon of flame, pleasure sparking, body arching, sweat popping out all over him; Trapper's own sweat is dripping off the ends of his hair as he clutches at Hawkeye's hips to try to hold him still as he plunges deep.

They fuck hard and fast, and before Hawkeye's really ready, Trapper is pulling at his cock, drawing his orgasm to the surface, and it bursts over him like a beautiful soap bubble, and for five seconds in the middle of this hell that is Korea, Hawkeye feels completely naked and seen and _happy_. He feels contented, body still humming, his come cooling on his belly as Trapper thrusts again and again.

When Trapper comes, splashing against his inner muscles, Hawkeye tenses, then relaxes again, as Trapper slips out of him and for a moment, Trapper's arms go around him, hugging him tightly, sealing their bare bellies together with Hawkeye's come, and then he lets go.

Hawkeye's racing heart feels like a runaway horse, and he can see how fast Trapper's heart is going from the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat; Hawkeye wants to dip his tongue into that spot, to feel the throb beat against the tip of his tongue.

But in this, they don't have the time; doing this in camp is, on reflection, much riskier than Hawkeye and Trapper should have been willing to try. But just before Trapper rolls off and lets Hawkeye up, he kisses him. It's quick and less than thorough, but it's something, and it causes Hawkeye's heart to trip and hammer again, even as his pulse starts to slow.

Hawkeye, after getting up, takes great vindictive pleasure in using Frank's towel to clean the come off his belly and between his legs. He wants to say something to Trapper, but what is there to say?

Trapper zips up and straightens his clothes, and Hawkeye just stares with his mouth partway open and his body hungering as he watches Trapper slip his arms into his shirt, the way that his biceps flex and strain, the way that the muscles of his back move. It makes Hawkeye feel desperate and out-of-control, and they just got finished fucking.

Trapper sits down on his cot with his back to Hawkeye, and drops his head into his hands. Hawkeye gets dressed and unlocks the door, then lies on his own cot and wonders why there are no snarky words inside his head. Nothing to say.

"Hawk, I'm sorry," Trapper says, and Hawkeye closes his eyes.

"What for?" he asks, counting starlight on the backs of his lids.

"It's nothin'. Go to sleep." Trapper must lie down, because Hawkeye hears the cot squeak and protest, and then the light over Trapper's bunk goes out, leaving them both in darkness, and Hawkeye wonders if that's some sort of metaphor.

He doesn't know why Trapper would apologize, but he'd bet it bodes nothing good.

++

Hawkeye and Trapper don't get a lot of time to talk for a couple days after they fucked in the Swamp, so eventually, Hawkeye, who can't be certain if Trapper's avoiding him, grabs Trapper after an OR session and drags him along to behind the motor pool. Rizzo is nowhere to be found, which is no surprise, and Hawkeye's grateful he's such a slacker.

"Trapper, are you avoiding me?" Hawkeye asks flat out, staring into eyes that are suddenly shifting to the side, Trapper's whole demeanor one of avoidance. "You are!" Hawkeye, who has been gripping Trapper's forearms, lets him go and steps back.

"Hawk, listen, it ain't like that—"

"Are you so sure? We've always been the us, Trap. Even when the them want to separate us. Since when have you let them?" But Hawkeye knows this isn't an infallible statement. Since Trapper caught him with Corporal Martin, there hasn't been an "us" in months. At least not until very recently. But to his surprise, Trapper doesn't try to refute that statement.

"I'm just getting used to things," Trapper says, eyes on the ground. "It ain't you, Hawk."

"Are you sure? Because it sure seems like it. Trapper, after Tokyo, after a few days ago, I need to know what we're doing. You seemed more at ease in your own skin in the Swamp, but then this cold shoulder treatment again. What are we doing?" Hawkeye reaches for Trapper's hands, but Trapper steps back, then winces. "You have to tell me," Hawkeye says in a low, urgent voice. "Are we just fucking around?"

"Hawkeye, I don' know," Trapper says, but all of Hawkeye's insecurities are raising their ugly heads now. What is going on? Trapper had acted like—and sober, no less—that he genuinely _wanted_ Hawkeye. Was he wrong? Was Trapper only acting?

"I want you," Hawkeye says in a whisper. "I know you know that. Don't you want me? In Tokyo you sure seemed to."

"I dunno, Hawk, I'm sorry," Trapper says, but now Hawkeye barrels on, heedless.

"Are we seriously just gonna be friends with a little extra? I want a relationship, Trap. Is that so much to ask?"

"But I'm married, Hawk," Trapper says, as if this explains everything. "And besides, I don' fuckin' know, okay? I'm barely gettin' used to the idea that I—you know. What I did."

Well, now Hawkeye's kind of angry. What right does Trapper have, to use Hawkeye to slake his lust, but not to actually be willing to _be with_ Hawkeye?

"She's a thousand miles away," Hawkeye says. "And I'm right here. And I don't appreciate being used. Like some kind of safety net, to help you figure out your life. We _both_ know you like men, Trap. Maybe _only_ men. I'm not going to let you ruin my life by letting me think you have feelings for me, when you still won't—"

"Shut up, Hawkeye!" Trapper hisses, grabbing Hawkeye's arm. "I ain't a—a—I ain't like _you_." The emphasis on the last word makes it sound like Hawkeye's something disgusting. "I'm sorry if I've been leadin' you on, but—"

"You know what, Trapper? Just forget it. I thought you… but no, obviously not. Trapper," he says, desperate enough to say something truly careless, "I love you, remember?."

"I have to go," Trapper says, suddenly, pulling back from Hawkeye in every way. "I gotta check my patient in post-op." And then he's gone, striding away like nothing happened, like he didn't just trample Hawkeye's heart and leave him bleeding out all over the Jeeps in the motor pool.

At that moment, Hawkeye spies Rizzo coming closer, cigar in his mouth, and he skedaddles, but the scent of the cigar smoke makes him think about Trapper, and his chest clenches. How can he always be so wrong?

++

Late that night, Hawkeye is finally tuning out Frank's snores in order to fall asleep, when he hears light footsteps tiptoeing over to his bunk. He knows it's Trapper, but he can't imagine that they have anything to talk about anymore; he tries to pretend he's already drifted off, but then Trapper settles on the floor next to his bunk. He wonders if Trapper is going to try to sneak more kisses in the darkness.

"Hawk," he whispers, and even though Hawkeye is trying not to betray his wakefulness, Trapper goes on, "I know you're awake, Hawk. We've been sharin' a tent too long for me not to be able to tell."

"Go away, Trap," Hawkeye says, feeling his heart crack open. If he has to listen to one more word, he might lose his mind, because there's part of him that's always going to _want_ Trapper, even if he's resolved to let him go.

"Let me tell you a story," Trapper says, ignoring him, like he usually does. This is apparently going to be aural rape, instead of his body.

"I'm a little old for bedtime stories, Trap," Hawkeye says, pulling the pillow over his head. But Trapper has always been persistent, and he yanks the pillow away.

"I think ya wanna hear this one, 'kay?" Trapper says, and then launches into it without letting Hawkeye respond. "See, I told ya how I got with my wife. Lemme tell ya how I got with this other… girl." The hesitation makes Hawkeye's ears perk up despite himself. What secret is Trapper going to impart this time? And even though he tells himself not to fall for it, not to let Trapper entrap him again, he finds himself listening intently.

"Where'd you meet her?" Hawkeye asks, resigned to the conversation.

"In Korea," Trapper says, voice muted by the nighttime sounds. "She's beautiful: black hair and blue eyes, and tall. It's nice not to have to bend over to kiss her. My wife is kinda short, ya know? But the thing is, Hawk, I'm afraid to tell her how I really feel. I'm married, for one thing. But it's not somethin' that people would condone. I sometimes feel like I gotta pretend she doesn't exist, that I ain't feelin' this way about her. An', Hawk, it's so bad, because I don' treat her right, I know it, but I can' seem to do any different." He pauses. Hawkeye wishes he had his pillow back to hide his flushing cheeks. Trapper's trying to tell him something—something that, if Hawkeye isn't mistaken, is code because Frank's snoring loudly a few feet away—but Hawkeye's afraid to hope what it might be.

Because it sure sounds like Trapper's telling Hawkeye that he actually does have feelings for him. But before Hawkeye can say anything, Trapper drops the pillow back on his head, grabs his hand, and squeezes it tightly.

"G'night, Hawk," he says, not waiting for a response before he tiptoes back to his own cot.

But even though Trapper falls asleep quickly, as if unburdened, Hawkeye lies awake for a long time.

++

The next morning, Frank goes off whistling to shower, and Hawkeye, who's dragging because he's barely slept, is in the Swamp alone with Trapper when Trap walks over to him, pulls him into a spot where the tent flaps aren't raised—did he plan that? Hawkeye wonders—and kisses him, thoroughly, on the mouth. He devours Hawkeye like Hawkeye's seen him do with his nurses, and it's almost as if he's forgotten the time behind the motor pool.

From the feel of this kiss, the intensity behind it, Hawkeye thinks maybe Trapper's come to some kind of decision, and if so, it must not be a terribly bad one, because why kiss Hawkeye if he were going to go back to pretending Hawkeye didn't exist? But he closes his eyes and melts into those strong arms, running his fingertips up and down bare biceps that always look so sexy in his scrub shirts, and goes boneless in his embrace.

But too soon, Trapper pull back. "Can't kiss you for as long or as much as I'd like, here in camp," Trapper says. He strokes his thumb over Hawkeye's cheekbone, and then down, brushing it across his lower lip. After a moment of tracing the curve, Trapper touches the tip of his finger to the corner of Hawkeye's mouth. The bruise is long gone, but Hawkeye knows they both remember Trapper's fist bruising Hawkeye's mouth, causing his lip to bleed and swell. "I'm sorry, Hawk," Trapper says.

Maybe it was a bad decision after all.

"Trap?" He does feel like a girl, right at this moment, staring up into hazel eyes and feeling his heart throb in his chest, his body swaying towards the man he's in love with, even though maybe Trapper doesn't love him back.

"I love you," Trapper whispers, so softly Hawkeye can barely hear him. He leans his head against Hawkeye and closes his eyes. "I can't imagine bein' without ya, Hawk, but it's gonna happen someday." He leans back and opens his eyes. He lets Hawkeye go, possibly not because he's angry or going to withdraw, but because they _are_ in the middle of camp. "Meet me in the supply tent in five minutes," Trapper says, and skims the back of his hand over Hawkeye's cheekbone just before he leaves.

Five minutes later, Trapper's locking the door and pulling Hawkeye to the mattresses in the corner, but he doesn't push Hawkeye down. Instead he locks eyes with him and says,

"I said I can't imagine a life without ya, but someday, Hawk, this war is gonna end. And I'm gonna go back home to my wife an' my girls, and my job in Boston. I just… I gotta say this to ya, right now. I promise not to be so hot 'n cold, while we're here in Korea, but that's all this is. Ya get what I mean?"

"Oh, sure, the cliché wartime romance," Hawkeye quips, "like Frank and Margaret, no doubt."

"Well, except I doubt Frank really loves her, and I hope we're more genuine people," Trapper says. "But yeah, basically. Hawk, ya have to understand, if we're gonna do this, it has a deadline. It's just the way it's gotta be."

"Oh, of course," Hawkeye says, a bit acidically. "But, Trap, why would I want—"

"Do ya want me, Hawk? Because I think ya do. And if you do, this is the way it has to happen."

"But, Trap—"

"Well, it's up to you, of course. But if ya don't wanna do this, I ain't gonna fuck ya anymore. Not for anything."

Privately, Hawkeye doubts Mr. Libido is willing to deny himself for anything, now that he's given in to the idea of this relationship, but he's suddenly terrified he's going to lose Trapper, that if he pushes back on this, Trapper will completely withdraw, and he'll never feel those lips against his again, or be able to touch him, those casual touches that always meant so much; he's afraid Trapper will start to treat him like he did when all this first started, and Hawkeye doesn't think he can bear that.

"Okay, Trap," he says. Trapper smiles, his fullest, most beautiful smile, and pulls Hawkeye towards him, and towards the mattress. As they flop down onto it, kissing and touching now, Hawkeye has no idea what's coming for him.

++

Hawkeye hadn't wanted to go on R&R without Trapper, not with their new understanding, but he was suffering from exhaustion after a bout with the flu, his grief over Henry, and a deluge of wounded, so as soon as they were recovering from the late, long OR sessions, Potter sent him to Tokyo for six days.

Now that Trapper's admitted to his feelings, they've been drinking together again, and Trap still hasn't regressed, which is part of the reason Hawkeye's whistling as he comes back from his rest and relaxation.

He's trotting jauntily into camp, feeling almost like a million bucks and looking forward to locking himself in the supply tent with Trapper, getting reacquainted, except he's also hungover, and in a faint fugue state, he ambles past Radar, who's calling after him, "Sir! Sir…" as he opens the shower tent, steps into the stall fully clothed, and yanks the chain to pour the tepid water over his head.

But Radar follows him into the tent. "Sir, we tried to reach you…"

And after several minutes of back-and-forth, Hawkeye can only stare blearily through water droplets at Radar.

"He left?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but yeah, he got his orders and shipped out."

"Without saying goodbye?" Hawkeye can't believe his ears. "He just… he _left_?"

"Are you still drunk, sir? Because he did leave. I'm awful sorry about it. We tried to call you!"

How could this be real? Hawkeye's good mood has evaporated the way the shower water does in summer in Korea, and he's goggling at Radar, trying to understand, to _believe_, that just like that, not a couple of weeks after they got together, Trapper's simply gone.

"And he didn't leave me anything? No note?" But even as Hawkeye asks, he knows the answer; Trapper couldn't very well have discussed the true nature of their relationship in a note. Better to say nothing, that's what Trapper would think; Hawkeye knows this.

"No note, but…" Radar trails off. "Sir, he did leave something."

"What? What is it? His best fedora? His ninth grade diary? His medical school diploma for me to remember him by?"

"Uh, this, sir," Radar says, and kisses Hawkeye quickly, so quickly, on the cheek. Both of their eyes go wide, and for the first time Hawkeye wonders just what Radar knows. He's got ESP, right? Does he _know_?

But even if he does, he hasn't breathed a word of it to anyone—including them—and he hasn't treated them any differently.

But all the way, driving wildly towards Trapper's departing plane, Hawkeye is thinking about that kiss. That that was the only thing Trapper left for him: a questionable gesture. But what does it mean? When he tracks Trapper down, he's going to beg for an answer, for the privilege to keep in touch via letters after he's gone, for anything.

Anything but the knowledge that their wartime romance just ended like so many before theirs have.

And then, ten minutes too late, Trapper gone, Hawkeye is sitting in an officer's club with the new doc, BJ, and Radar, and he knows he's too bright, too manic, as he welcomes BJ with open arms, as Radar drinks uncomfortably.

But their last moments together are playing on a loop in Hawkeye's brain, the kiss they shared just before he came down with the flu; or the strip poker game they played together; or the way that poker game ended with them both naked and Hawkeye filled to the brim with Trapper, his hole stuffed with his enormous cock, and his heart overflowing with emotion, and Trapper murmuring endearments into his ear.

BJ is talking about his newborn daughter, but Hawkeye's not really listening. He's too busy hearing the audible snap of his own heart breaking.

Trapper only ever promised him the _now_, and Hawkeye agreed; Hawkeye thinking they'd have more time, hoping Trapper'd be with him till the end, well, that was Hawkeye's own damage. It isn't Trapper's fault, no matter how much he wants to throw his drink and rage out loud to anyone within earshot about losing what was, most likely, the love of his life.

He knows he'll never get over him, not really, but there's nothing else to do; he can't very well ever tell anyone.

It was just a wartime romance, and like so many before him, it won't—it can't—survive peacetime, and so Hawkeye gives up, sinking down on his stool, and silently kisses Trapper goodbye.

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Birth Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232337) by [annabeth_at_the_helm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm)


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